


Sea of air

by zetsubooty



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Canon-Typical Violence, Future Fic, Hank Anderson-centric, Hank trying to get his shit together, M/M, Police Procedural, Post-Pacifist Best Ending (Detroit: Become Human), Recovery, Slow Burn, again -ish, dog walker au, good luck you useless old gay, you know fun stuff
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-18
Updated: 2019-03-22
Packaged: 2019-10-12 03:06:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 21,221
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17459432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zetsubooty/pseuds/zetsubooty
Summary: It's been two years. Two years since the world was dragged, kicking and screaming, into a new era. Two years since Hank Anderson's world turned on its head, all because of one hopelessly beautiful android.There's something to be said for someone who makes you wanna be a better you, y'know?Too bad that person disappeared.





	1. Reinventing the wheel

**Author's Note:**

> this started out as "haha what if hankcon oh-no-my-new-dog-walker-is-hot au" and now. now we here.
> 
> also warning for talk about a physically abusive relationship later in the chapter.

Hank pulls into his parking space, lets the engine quiet, then sits. And sits. Taps his fingers on the steering wheel, whistles poorly, readjusts his rearview mirror. Then returns it to how it was.

“This is stupid,” he says into the cool air, and forces himself to open the car door.

When Hank pushes into the office, Jeffrey’s eyebrows reach for the hairline that departed a decade ago. Hank can only smile bitterly; god knows it’s been a while since he’s made it in this early. He can see Jeffrey tense, anticipating some outburst, and he can’t blame him, tries his best not to mirror it with his own body as he sits down. Things’ve been better, but some reactions are hard to unlearn.

Jeffrey frowns for a second longer, then pointedly leans back, lacing his fingers behind his head. “Hank. What’s up?”

Hank stares at his hands where they rest on his knees for a while longer. _Rip off this bandaid, c’mon._ He meets Jeffrey’s questioning gaze. “I’ve been thinking ‘bout something.”

“O…kay…?” Jeffrey raises an eyebrow, agitation intruding into his posture again.

“Been thinking…these past couple years…this past _decade_ , let’s be honest… It’s been…a lot.” He knows this is the closest he’s come to Talking About Feelings since the accident, and he can’t blame Jeffrey for looking thrown. Still, his friend recovers quickly, leaning elbows on the desk and giving Hank an encouraging smile.

“It’d be a lot for anyone.”

Hank looks down at his hands again, apologies and excuses weighing his tongue until he feels nauseous with them. All in a rush, he lunges forwards, waving his hands expansively as though that would better convey what he’s thinking. “Just thought maybe I should make a change. Get away from this rut I’ve been in, get a change of scenery.” He shrinks in on himself very slightly. “Get sober.”

He can feel Jeffrey’s eyes boring into him. “I think that’d be a fucking fantastic idea, Hank.” His words slap out with no small amount of reprimand, and Hank winces internally. “Are you thinking a sabbatical…? I’ll give you whatever time you need. Y’know, my cousin’s a nurse, she could recommend some good inpatient programs--”

“No, I was thinking more like moving cities.”

“You’re shitting me,” Jeffrey barks a laugh, but when Hank doesn’t laugh also, he sits up straight. “Jesus, you’re serious, Hank? What, the new puppy wasn’t enough? Can’t you just buy a douchey new car like the rest of us?”

“Nope.”

Jeffrey shakes his head slowly. “This seems extreme, especially without taking some steps in the direction of sobriety first.”

“Yeah, well, I’m a grown-ass man and I can make bad decisions for myself, thanks.”

“And you sure do.”

Hank spits out a laugh. “Guess I’m hoping _this_ bad decision is actually a good one. No guarantees.” His smile takes on a faint bitterness. “I actually…already looked into a program. It’s just outside LA. I’ve been on their waitlist for a while and I think I’ll get in soon.”

“LA? Christ, Hank, you really aren’t fucking around, are ya?”

Hank nods more definitively than he feels. “I’m serious about this. I’m done. Anyway,” he tries to brighten his expression, though he doesn’t kid himself into thinking Jeffrey buys it, “I was hopin’ you’d be willing to set up some kinda transfer for me…?”

Jeffrey sighs. “Whatever you want, Hank. Though, y’know, if you’re really serious about changing things up, might be good to think about switching jobs.”

Hank opens his mouth to scoff at the idea, then hesitates. Finally, he comes out with, “I like my job.”

“Coulda fooled me.”

Hank shrugs self-deprecatingly. “It’s just…hard.”

Jeffrey smiles tensely; he’s over the excuses and Hank fucking knows it. After a long silence, Jeffrey reaches for his tablet. “Maybe this change of scene is what you need after all. I know a captain there, I’ll drop her a message, see what she says.” He catches Hank’s eye. “You’re sure that’s where you wanna go?”

“No, but… Call it some kind of hunch, but I feel like something good’ll happen there.”

That seems to be enough for Jeffrey, at least for now. “Okay. Okay, well, in the meantime, your ass is still mine, so get to work.”

Already standing, Hank throws him a mock salute before leaving, feeling for the first time like this is gonna be okay.

* * *

Hank waits outside the facility’s front door, staring up at the yellow-blue sky as he waits for the taxi. The air here smells way better than he’d expected, and it keeps throwing him off. Then again, LA is no longer the car-choked hellscape from his younger days and, anyway, Larchspring House is far enough north that it can barely be considered LA anymore.

_Guess I’ll find out on Monday. Find out a lotta things on Monday._

He turns and gives the facility a perfunctory wave before shouldering his duffle into the taxi.

_I could just tell this thing to take me to the nearest bar. No one would stop me._

Except in theory, Jeffrey’s waiting at the new house with Sumo and Kendo, and Hank’s kinda been enjoying not seeing disappointment reflected back at him lately. So, he just gives the taxi the address for the house in Santa Monica and does his best to feel proud of his self-control.

He’d been intending to sleep on the ride in, but Hank finds himself watching the scenery curiously. He’d never thought of Detroit as an especially green city, but he’s struck by the brown-tan-olive landscape rolling past. Beautiful in its own right, but alien.

_I’d like to see the real desert, sometime._

Out here, the damage from LA’s uprising is more subtle, its effect mostly felt in the noted absence of androids on the streets when he passes through more populous areas. Then again, they’re not as easy to identify now. Probably for the best.

He knows, from the news and also conversation around Larchspring, that closer to the downtown core there are still a couple busted-up buildings from the human rioters. But out here, resistance looked more like androids crammed into crawlspaces and under porches, hidden safely away until the powers that be came to their senses.

Hank’d kept quiet about his small part in that particular debacle, though the other inpatients were aware that he’d been a cop in Detroit at the time. But he’d pleaded ignorance and uninvolvement, told them he was too fucked up at the time to really notice, which isn’t too far off the truth.

Hank smacks his head against the headrest with a sigh.

_Where the fuck did you go?_

The house looks exactly like it had in the pictures, a polite little ranch home with faded white walls and warm caramel-brown trim. It’s bigger than his old place but still small, giving off an air of freshness instead of slow rot. New, fresh, perfectly adequate. Uncomfortable. Alien. Hank inhales sharply, startled by how thick his breath sounds. He blinks quickly as he gets out, hoping none of it’ll show on his face.

Jeffrey waits in the doorway, watching indulgently as Kendo wriggles past his thigh and darts across the front garden, followed somewhat more sedately by Sumo, who greets him with a low _boof_. Kendo hops around Hank's feet, mouth open in a happy grin, still dancing her dark paws a little even when he crouches down to scrub her ruff.

“They missed you,” Jeffrey says by way of greeting.

All the complicated feeling have evaporated in the face of these friends, and Hank can’t help but beam as he rubs both dogs down. “I swear, she’s way bigger than when I left.”

“I think she’s bigger than she was this morning,” Jeffrey says with a smile in his voice, coming out to give Sumo a pat. “They loved getting fawned over by the kids, but this one always had his eye on the door.”

Hank glances up from scrubbing behind Sumo’s ears. “How’re they doing? Kids, I mean.”

Jeffrey looks thrown for a second; it’s probably the first time Hank’s asked that in about five years. He recovers quickly with a flash of a smile. “Ask ‘em yourself, I dragged them down to help.”

“Oh,” he responds intelligently, staring into Kendo’s black eyes.

“I’m way too old to help people move, I’m not doing dick. Here for moral support only.”

Hank forces a chuckle as he finally stands. _You can’t go your whole life avoiding children. Gonna hurt like a bitch, but you gotta reset this bone._

Jeffrey claps his shoulder, steering them back towards the porch. “I’m sure he’ll tell you all about it, but Lucas’s all fired up because of some new photography teacher. Keeps asking me shit as if I’m old enough to have hand-developed film. Says he wants to turn the basement into a darkroom, which I’ll believe when I see it. Ayesha looks like they’re gonna get that swimming scholarship, even though they’ve been a little less invested lately.” Jeffrey swells with visible pride. “Their coach says they have a shot at the Olympic team, if we can just reign them in, keep ‘em focused.”

Hank nods, as if this is all Familiar Fatherly Content, as if the vagaries of raising teens were something he ever had access to.

Ayesha and Lucas sprawl on the couch, engrossed in a phone and a sketchbook respectively, though Ayesha looks up with a nod and a smile as they come in. Kendo sprints for the two of them, bounding about urgently as if shocked they aren’t as excited about Hank’s arrival as she is.

Hank scans the open-concept living room; his furniture looks out-of-place, dingy, saggy. Sounds about right. He inhales deeply, nodding. “Looks good in here.”

“If you don’t like where any of the furniture is, you can move it yourself.”

“Thanks,” he laughs, elbowing Jeffrey.

_Maybe I can do this._

They start in the kitchen, opening boxes of shit Hank’d mostly forgotten he had. The kids take turns rattling off every possible (parent-friendly) detail of their lives, every speck of friend-group drama and academic interest. Hank lets it wash over him, peppering in ‘mm-hm’ and ‘oh?’ where appropriate. It’s immensely charming but it fills him with a seeping guilt.

_I was like an uncle to these kids once. Ayesha babysat Cole, we used to take them all to the waterpark in the summer. It’s not fair to them, cutting that off. Not fair to me._

Hank closes his eyes, inhaling deeply as he wipes dust off a jar. New starts. Doing different. Not just taking chunks out of himself until the only way he can hang on is with his fist around a bottle. Can’t change the past, can’t erase the fuck-ups just by feeling bad enough about them. God knows he’s tried.

He leaves the kids finding places for dishes and heads for his room. Jeffrey starts to follow him, and Hank tries to wave him off.

“I barely have any clothes, I can get it done myself.”

“I’m still coming with you,” Jeffrey insists, gaze weighted.

Hank turns and heads down the angled corridor. “Fine. If you find a box labelled “DO NOT OPEN UNLESS YOU’RE ME,” don’t fucking open it.”

“What’s in it?” The suspicion wafting off of Jeffrey spikes.

Hank gives him a deeply disappointed look over his shoulder. “Dicks.”

To his relief, Jeffrey laughs, rubbing between his brows. “Okay, I will…not open that one.”

Hank stops, turning fully, pitching his voice low enough that the kids won’t hear over their music. “Look, you don’t need to worry about me, ‘kay? I’m good. I threw everything out before I even left.” He omits the part where “throwing out” had mostly meant guzzling it down until he blacked out on the kitchen floor again. Might as well go out with a bang.

Jeffrey holds his eyes for a long moment. “You’ve said that to me before, Hank.” He scratches at his scalp, sighing. “I wish you’d let us stay a bit longer. I just…this is a lot, all at once.”

Hank sets off back down the hall. “I’m only willing to sleep on my own damn couch for a couple nights.” He pushes the master bedroom’s door open, surveying the sunny room, then grinning at Jeffrey with more certainty than he feels. “It’s a system shock kinda thing. At least, that’s the idea. Either I stand on my own two feet or I’ll be crying on your doorstep a week from now.”

Jeffrey’s forehead wrinkles impressively but he slowly nods. “Okay. You have my number.”

 _And will probably never call it._ “I know. Now, let’s put this crap away.”

They eat pizza with three of them crammed on the couch and Lucas on the floor with the dogs, watching some vapid comedy that Hank laughs at heartily but forgets the instant it’s over. After the kids go to bed, Jeffrey stays up with him for a little bit, watching a pre-recorded game in companionable silence. It feels like an eternity since he last watched TV; the people at Larchspring were real big on not replacing one addiction with another, unless the addiction was cognitive-behavioural therapy and moderate exercise. It’s good to finally lose himself in the emotions of the game, even if it’s not a pair of teams he gives a shit about.

_Am I supposed to pull for the Lakers now? Or do I keep my old team?_

He’s still mulling that over as he lets the dogs out for a last piss. He stands on the back patio, inhaling deeply and surveying the skyline. There’s some sort of sweet floral scent lingering in the air, and, even after sundown, a warmth that he’s going to have to get used to. A lot of things to get used to.

“We can do it,” he tells the dogs. Kendo gives him an agreeable bark.

* * *

He goes for a jog the next morning. LA seems like the kind of place where you oughta go for a morning jog, and besides, he wants a chance to suss out the neighbourhood in a way that he never can just from pictures. Both dogs are over the moon for about the first five minutes but then Sumo starts dragging further and further behind until Hank’s forced to take them home.

He pats Sumo’s massive head. “You’re getting lazy, old boy. Gotta do something about that.” That’s right, there are mechanics to moving a new city. Finding the grocery stores, a good GP, a dependable dog walker, finding out where’s nice for a quiet (or loud) drive to clear the head. Going with Jeffrey later today to buy a new (old) car. All this shit he‘s never had to do except for those few years of college, all this shit that Cayleigh took care of when they first moved back to Detroit.

“We’ll figure it out,” he tells the dogs as he feeds them.

“Already talking to yourself?” Jeffrey comes round the corner, still rubbing a towel at the back of his neck. “These smell like ass, Hank. Buy some new towels.”

“That’s the one I use for the dogs,” he deadpans. Jeffrey throws it at him.

Hank makes pancakes with the kids, probably the first time he’s cooked something more complex than ramen in months. But maybe LA!Hank is a guy who cooks again, at least sometimes. Watching the kids squabble and joke over the pan warms him through to the tips of his toes but also makes his heart hurt. Especially glancing over his shoulder to catch Jeffrey smiling at them indulgently from his seat on the other side of the counter. Hank’s long, long over that crush, and loves Jeffrey’s wife Tamara, but moments like this…it’s hard not to think about what could have been.

_Why does it feel like my life’s just an endless series of missed opportunities?_

A face swims up from his memory, speckled and gorgeous, eyes like sun-dappled earth and so warm whenever they happened to light on Hank’s face.

_I didn’t miss that one. I grabbed hold of him as tight as I could without chasing him down like some stalker. Got me nowhere._

Hank shakes himself, reminding Lucas to turn his pancakes.

They send the kids sightseeing, then Hank and Jeffrey head to a dealership in a taxi. He has to compromise quite a bit; even ten years ago when he’d bought the Buick, it’d been reasonably easy to get traditional vehicles, though that dinosaur had been a lucky find. But he has to admit the preowned silver-green Shimizu he finally settles on is a beautiful machine; LA!Hank can adjust to an electric car and automatic drive. Probably. At least it has room for the dogs in the back, or for picking up two exhausted teens on the way home.

Hank counts his blessings that, for everything else he’s fucked up in his life, he somehow managed to maintain decent credit. There’s some money from the sale of the house and his old car, but real estate prices haven’t yet recovered around the epicenter of the revolution and it wasn’t as much as he’d hoped. Part of what’d attracted him to this stretch of Santa Monica was the plummet in prices after the tsunami in ‘36 and again in ‘40. Maybe there’s the slight threat of being crushed horribly under a wall of water, but Hank made his peace with death a long time ago. Would be a shame for the pups, though.

They leave the kids drowsing on the couch in front of the TV and head for the garage. He’s never been much of a handyman, but somehow he’s still acquired far too many tools. Still, they’re relaxing to put away on shelves or hang on hooks left by the previous owners. Hank’s just finished hanging the last of a set of wrenches he’s used maybe twice when Jeffrey clears his throat.

“Hank. What are these.”

He doesn’t turn, doesn’t need to, to know what boxes Jeffrey’s examining, see the neat labels written on them in a hand he used to know as well as the back of his own. “I’m not ready to go through those.”

“Have you told Cayleigh you fucked off across the country with these?”

“Yeah, she said godspeed.” He turns finally, gracing Jeffrey with a wan smile. “I think it comforts her just to know his things are out there somewhere. But she doesn’t wanna be tripping over them in that speck of an apartment.”

Jeffrey crosses his arms. “That doesn’t mean you have to tote them around. Hank, I thought this was supposed to be a fresh start.”

“It is. Haven’t you spent the past few months telling me to slow down?” Jeffrey nods, though the furrow in his brow only deepens. Hank walks over, resting his palms on the boxes as if they were a warm stove. “I’ll get there. Just…lemme take my time with this one.”

To his utter amazement and slight discomfort, Jeffrey grabs him in a side-hug. Hank freezes up for a solid few seconds before managing to wedge his arm back between them and give Jeffrey a few awkward back pats in return. Part of him loves the contact, wants to lean into it, but he feels like if he even started trying to feed that huge gaping pit inside him, it’d never stop until it devoured every ounce of the few people who still love him.

Hank forces a believable smile, giving Jeffrey one last pat. “I’m okay. I’m gonna be okay.”

Jeffrey, clearly also uncomfortable, releases him and goes to jam a box of mostly unused Christmas ornaments under a workbench.

He declines to take them to the airport, but does help bully a still-half-asleep Ayesha into the waiting taxi. There’s laughing and teasing and Ayesha groaning with all the put-upon agony of a seventeen-year-old, and when he finally stands waving at the retreating car from the end of his front walk, the stillness slams him like a truck.

He makes it inside before he fumbles out his phone, _I can’t do this, come back, I made a mistake, how could you leave me here?_ all fizzing at the tips of his fingers and choking his throat.

But after a few minutes, he tucks his phone in his pocket, straightens.

Then goes and cries into Sumo’s fur on the floor like the grown-ass well-adjusted man he is.

* * *

Captain Sofia Ngo’s office is situated at the crux of a t-shaped corridor, protruding slightly so its glass walls give a view of the hall leading to the holding cells and the interview rooms, in addition to the bullpen. It’s tastefully decorated, several potted plants crowding the windowsill behind her desk and a few pieces of abstract art and photographs in amongst the credentials and honours. Which there are many of.

Sofia herself is a spectacularly average-looking woman, greying hair pulled back in a tidy bun against the back of her head in a way that seems more becoming of a beat cop than the captain of a department. She wears a tailored blazer open over a shirt that makes Hank think of paintings on Greek vases, but when she stands and comes around her desk to shake his hand, she’s wearing jeans and dark sneakers.

Hank decides he likes her by the time he releases her hand. Especially when she immediately crouches down to greet Kendo.

“And who is this precious baby?”

“Her name’s Kendo. Uh, sorry about this…I’m trying to find something for them…”

“Don’t worry, I know you’re still settling in.” Kendo’s got her butt glued to the ground, on her best behaviour, but her fluffy tail’s going a mile a minute and she obviously laps up the attention. And gives Sofia an enthusiastic kiss on the cheek; Hank winces, but Sofia seems delighted, rubbing her neck vigorously. “Are you settling in? Yes, you are! Yes you are! Are you helping your daddy? Mm-hm?”

Hank catches himself smiling naturally.

_This is gonna be alright._

Finally, Sofia hops back to her feet, clearing her throat. “So. Welcome to the city, Lieutenant Anderson. You a first name or last name kind of guy?” She steps back around her desk, motioning him to sit.

Hank raises his hand in a wave, settling it on Kendo’s head. “First is fine.”

“Good. We’re a first name kind of department. And it’s only a little bit because I got sick of Elisa butchering my name.” She grimaces with the face of a woman who has had to make many similar concessions over her career. “You’ve got an impressive track record, up to a point, Hank.” Her brown eyes pierce through him, demanding an answer.

_How honest to be?_

_What did Jeffrey tell them?_

“I was in an accident a few years ago. Lost my son. It’s been tough coming back from it.” _Not a lie._ He nods slowly. “I was hoping moving out here would shake me out of it.”

Sofia purses her lips sympathetically. “I’m sorry, that must have been devastating.”

“Yyyyep,” he replies, giving the edge of her desk a thousand-yard stare.

She chuckles at his flippant reply, but composes herself quickly. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t laugh…” Hank waves off her apology. She takes a deep breath, then leans across the desk, giving him a dimply smile. “I think I’ll like you, Hank. Welcome to the LA Homicide Special Section. Let’s go meet the crew.”

The bullpen’s smaller than he would’ve expected, but without his asking, Sofia explains this is only the central department, there are satellite offices at other precincts. Windows line both sides, midmorning sun journeying across the broad space and touching each desk affectionately. The colour scheme might be different, sage green and creamy white seeming to magnify the light, the layout might be a little strange, but the vibe is familiar, relaxing.

Then again, maybe familiar is bad.

“This is Sergeant Elisa Aguilar, she’s my right-hand woman. She/her.”

“Good to meetcha.” Elisa stands to her full height, which can’t be over 5’5”, if that, and shakes Hank’s hand with a grip that makes him think she could probably still throw him across the room if she wanted to. Her wavy cedar-brown hair is cropped close in an undercut, and her clothes are similarly functionally stylish. Dual sleeves of tattoos peek out from under her shirt, a charming jumble of styles and images. There are several empty cups and mugs on her desk. All of them have pigs on them.

Sofia moves down the line. “This is Detective Jean-Baptiste Michaud, but everyone calls them JB. They/them.”

“Hi.” JB has less of an accent than he’d expect from the name, though there’s a slight foreign cadence to their words as they exchange pleasantries that’s hard to place. Between the soft-spoken but clear voice, the aggressively comfy-looking cabled sweater they have rolled up to their elbows, and the oversized glasses, they give off the impression of an English teacher rather than a detective. There is a Dodgers decal stuck to the side of their cubicle, and what looks like a baseball stitching-patterned stress ball tucked behind their monitor. Hank shakes their hand, returning their warm smile.

“Next, this is Sergeant Sindri Muir. Come to him if you need to find anything. He/him.”

Sindri is taller than Hank, built like a knobbly beanpole, and quite possibly the pastiest person Hank has ever seen. When he smiles, it looks like there’s too many teeth in there, but in a charming sorta way. “Heya! Welcome to the force.”

“H—”

“Oh! And here’s Draw.”

Hank turns from Sindri and the face he sees leaves him reeling like he’s slammed face-first into a brick wall.

Alien grey-blue eyes stare at him with polite indifference from a face he holds like a talisman in his heart. He’s dressed in a modified version of the old familiar android working costume, somehow even stiffer than a jacket and tie had been. Maybe Hank’s misremembering, but he also seems…bigger, closer to Hank’s height and broader. Barely perceptible, maybe imagined, but just enough that it makes the disconnect worse.

Hank can’t handle looking at him, can’t handle the part of his brain still hoping, pushing for it to be _his_ Connor. “Uh…”

“Hello, I’m the RK900 employed by the LAPD.” He pauses, eyes slipping off to the side in a disconcertingly familiar way before settling back on Hank’s face. “I believe you have some familiarity with my predecessor model.”

“You could say that.” Hank’s barely paying attention to his own words. He blinks, but the spectre still remains standing in front of him, speaking with a mockingbird voice.

_I hate this I hate this I hate this._

“Hm. Excuse me, Captain, I needed to speak to Sergeant Sindri…”

“Go ahead, Draw.” The Abomination brushes past them and Hank does his best not to recoil visibly. Seemingly oblivious, Sofia motions for him to follow her. “Anyway, that’s everybody who’s in right now, you’ll meet the rest later. Let me show you your desk…”

“Yeah, sure.” Hank keeps his eyes pinned between her shoulder blades and refuses to look at The Abomination again. He’s going to have to, going to have to learn to work with this person. This person wearing a mask he has no right to, this thief. But for now, he just tucks Kendo under the desk, and settles into the grim work of familiarizing himself with a new computer system.

* * *

Hank does a lot of daydreaming now, something that’d become familiar over the weeks at Larchspring. Especially on family visit days, when the reality of flinging himself across the country settled in as he watched other inpatients greet partners, children, friends.

A lot of the time, he’d imagine Cole running through the sliding doors, imagine whirling him up into the biggest bear-hug the world has ever seen. Cole would’ve told him all about school and the piano lessons that Hank already can’t understand, would’ve skipped unselfconsciously as they walked around the little garden courtyard. Would’ve been so proud of his dad for getting clean, if he’d understood at all. Would’ve loved him regardless, loved him with the sun-bright love that only children seem to have access to.

Or maybe he would’ve been older, eleven now, that nuclear explosion of affection tempered by time and comprehension but still there, still fierce, still the warmest light Hank has ever felt. Would’ve had new interests and friends, would be starting to form opinions on the world around him, would have no qualms about sharing those, just like his parents. Might’ve still wanted to hold his hand as they walked, safe from the judging eyes of his peers.

But sometimes Cole is too much, too jagged a shape to hold in his mind. Those times, he’d imagine a friend, an acquaintance even, someone he could fall into easy conversation with and not have to feel so much.

And sometimes he imagines Connor.

He’s had a hundred thousand conversations with him in his head, and each one unsatisfying, each one failing to convey what he’d failed to convey with that one bruising embrace. Part of him steps back every time, ridicules him for still obsessing over someone he knew for barely a week before events ripped them apart. But maybe that’s part of it, the ache of untapped potential. That part, at least, is a familiar pain, something akin to what he feels when he thinks about all the time he could’ve spent getting to know Cole.

That’s about where the similarities in his feelings end.

By the time his dumb ass had recognised the attraction he felt, Connor was already gone, not that he seemed particularly attainable anyway. There was something there, though, some bond, deep enough that it hurt dearly when Connor never contacted him back. But Hank can take a hint, even if his heart can’t.

Which is why he absolutely doesn’t think about dozing on the couch together when he goes home that first day. Doesn’t imagine them with hands tangled loosely and Sumo lying on their feet and Kendo spread across their laps, too warm and blissfully domestic. Stupid androids don’t doze anyway.

Why he doesn’t enjoy his first truly private-feeling wank in weeks, thinking about that weird-ass voice or whether whatever nerd had so intricately dotted Connor’s skin had paid the same attention to his dick.

LA has to be chock full of new unobtainable twinks for him to obsess over. Or maybe someone’ll drop a brick on his head and knock the pervert out of him. He can only hope.

* * *

Day two is much like the first. Kendo mostly behaves herself and keeps quiet, but it’s pretty apparent this is not a long-term solution. Plus, she seems to miss Sumo more than she ever missed him, which Hank works very hard not to feel sour about.

It’s nice for _him_ , having her there with him. It means he has something to focus on anytime Draw passes into his field of vision, gives him an excuse to go outside.

_Avoidance isn’t gonna fix this._

_Dunno what will, but._

He’s almost relieved when a report comes in of a domestic disturbance gone sour before the uniformed officers could arrive. Which is pretty terrible of him, but Hank’s been working on the whole acknowledging and accepting his flaws thing.

JB rests their fingers on the corner of his desk. “Hey, you up for coming along?”

“Yeah, sure.” He tries not to look too relieved as he bends to untie Kendo’s leash.

“Great. …Are you gonna bring her along?” JB wiggles their fingers at Kendo, who trots out from under the desk with a grin to sniff at them.

“I… Yeah, uh…sorry…”

“Oh, it’s not a problem, just thought maybe we should take your vehicle.” They look up from Kendo with an apologetic smile. “My partner’s allergic, so…”

“No worries--”

“Perhaps I should accompany you as well, Detective Michaud?”

“I--”

“Yeah, we’re good, thanks.” Hank shoulders past Draw, tugging Kendo in his wake.

“That wasn’t a request. Captain Ngo instructed me to come along.”

Hank freezes, shoulders drooping, then turns slowly. _This all feels too familiar._ “Then why the hell’d you ask?”

Draw regards him with disinterested narrowed eyes. “Detective Michaud responds better to polite suggestion. _You_ , apparently, do not.”

Hank can feel JB’s radiating discomfort, he knows damn well he’s behaving unprofessionally, but he can’t seem to reign himself in in the face of the Abomination. “Sure, fine. Let’s go.” He forces himself to smile. Judging by JB’s expression, it’s not pleasant.

The car feels crowded. To his eternal relief, JB automatically takes the front seat and Draw doesn’t argue. Of course, that means he’s sitting in the back with Kendo’s chin on his lap; Hank tries not to feel betrayed and adjusts the rearview mirror so he at least can’t see Draw looking down at her with a stunned expression. That is absolutely in no way, shape, or form endearing.

_Fuck._

_Fuck off._

At least navigating gives him something else to focus on, listening for the droned instructions of the GPS, scanning unfamiliar intersections and buildings. Still, he’s glad when he sees the slowly cycling lights of the patrol cars.

Hank sticks his head in the back to give Kendo a few pats, as if he could erase another touch with his own. Then turns, squaring his shoulders, and follows the other two towards the police tape drawn across the corner of an unassuming apartment block.

JB waves at the uniformed officer as theyduck under the tape and through a stairwell doorway, Draw following in their wake and greeting the officer with only the slightest acknowledgement. He stops, however, indicating Hank with a stiff palm. “Lieutenant Anderson is with us.”

Hank flashes his badge. Its shape is foreign in his hand, the weight slightly off. He shrugs off the feeling, smiling at the officer as she raises the tape for him.

His eyes take a moment to adjust to the dim fluorescents of the stairwell. They turn the smeared and pooling blood a darker brown, gleaming sickly as Hank edges around the body and its attendant medical examiner taking up most of the floor space.

JB pulls a tablet out of their bag, tapping distractedly at its edge with a stylus. “Paul Andrews, resident of unit 305. He wasn’t the one who called it in. The original domestic, I mean.”

Hank glances around, as if the person responsible might leap out of the walls. “Okay, who did?”

“A neighbour,” Draw calls from where he’s crouched on the landing above. “However, there was an interrupted 911 call from the cellphone of the other resident, Grace Vilar. No audio.” Not sparing them a glance, he stands and passes out of sight up the stairs.

The ME glances up from her work. “Vilar’s in one of the patrol cars, I think, if you wanna talk to her before they take her in. It’s pretty obvious she’s responsible.”

“Yeah, well, we’ll see,” Hank says, taking his time to look over the body properly.

Paul Andrews’ right arm is bent unnaturally behind him, shoulder looking dislocated. _Probably tried to catch himself when he first started to fall._ There’s a sticky pool under his head, and when Hank steps down and crouches to have a look, the left side of his face is bashed up as if it’d hit every step on the way down. Hank’s mouth pulls into a thin line and he stands quickly. Beyond several surface abrasions, that seems like the extent of the damage, but he’ll have to wait for the full report. Andrews’ feet are bare, and he’s dressed in grey shorts and a light green t-shirt with pit stains. All in all, looks dressed for a quiet day in.

_Who the hell picks a Tuesday afternoon to have a bang-up fight?_

He knows full well the answer is lots of people. Shaking his head, Hank turns his attention upstairs, curious what Draw was looking at. JB stays behind, making conversation with the ME, getting her impression of Vilar.

There’s a few intermittent collections of blood spatter on the stairs. Hank crouches down, squinting at them.

“Hey, catch!” JB waits for him to look, then tosses him a small pen light.

“Thanks,” he calls absently, clicking it on and taking a better look. Just as he’d thought, the droplets are round in shape. Frowning, Hank climbs to the landing. There’s more blood here, smeared on the wall opposite the steps as if Andrews had spilled against it. Or something like that had happened.

The next landing up, an old rolling suitcase lies on its front, the handle bent. Hank backtracks and calls down to JB for gloves, catching them one-handed as he tucks the pen light behind one ear and pulling them on as he heads up. He lifts one end of the suitcase; there doesn’t appear to be anything on it beyond the dust of the stairwell. Slowly, he opens a zipper, unsurprised when he sees a distinctly feminine blouse and the strap of a bra. He lets it drop back down, shining the light around. There’s no more blood here, or at least not that he can see.

As he’s looking, Draw comes back into view. Hank slips the light off to the side, calling, “Anything up there?”

Draw just shakes his head, passing behind him and continuing partway down the stairs. When Hank glances back, he’s examining the walls and ceiling. Hank follows quickly, looking carefully.

Draw glances over his shoulder at him. “You’re suspicious as well, aren’t you, Lieutenant?”

Hank crosses his arms, staring glumly at the body. “You’re… You can do that magic reconstruction bullshit too, can’t you?”

Draw nods shallowly. “Yes, of course. However, I’d like to hear what _you_ think happened here, since I’m not the one whose performance is in question.”

Hank bristles, but forces himself to expel a long breath before closing his mouth on a crooked smile. “I’m guessing this isn’t the first time there’s been a call regarding this pair?” He looks to JB, who nods. “She was threatening to leave. He chased her into the stairwell, they fought, he got the suitcase off her and chucked it down the stairs. Or maybe it just got bumped. Anyway, he lost his balance and fell.” He pauses, just so he can see the smug glint in Draw’s eye, but charges ahead before he can speak. “That’s where things get ugly. He probably survived the initial fall, but he was injured pretty bad. She followed him down. Panicked, maybe. I don’t think she used a weapon, I think she just smashed his head against the concrete. And then she tried to cover it up, dripped blood on the stairs and made that smear on the wall, maybe with a towel or something.”

_This one doesn’t have any kind of feel-good ending._

Draw crosses his arms. “Well, she did a bad job. I’m not even sure what she was trying to make it look like happened here.”

JB smiles with fond patience. “Times like this, humans don’t think clearly. You know that, Draw.”

“One of their many failings,” sniffs Draw.

Hank snorts out a laugh; the medical examiner shoots him a glare as she waves in a stretcher. “Yeah, well. This substandard human is gonna go check out the apartment, ‘kay?” JB nods; Draw regards him with a cool stare and then turns to follow the ME.

Not much of note up there, beyond nosy neighbours clotting doorways and whispering nervously. Hank talks briefly with the uniformed officers, peers around the cluttered, dank apartment. It bears the stink of stale cigarettes and poverty; he’s not surprised by the beer bottles that litter surfaces, or the red ice inhaler he finds knocked on the ground.

_Getting popular out here, too, huh? Great._

“Well, this sucks,” he tells the apartment, then heads for the door, leaving the place to the CSIs.

When he gets outside, he spots JB’s dreads and pale blue sweater instantly, but he can’t see Draw anywhere. He jogs over, waving at them with a smile.

“Where’s Draw gone?”

JB shrugs. “He went along with the uniform who took in the suspect. Said he wanted to question her.”

“He _what?_ ” slips out before he thinks. Hank cringes internally, clears his throat, and starts walking slowly back to the car.

“You know,” JB catches up to fix him with a steady stare, “Detective Draw is a perfectly capable officer.”

Hank pinches the bridge of his nose, sighing heavily. “I know. Why don’t you just f…” _New habits. Doing differently._ He sucks in a deep breath, then another. “Can I actually…tell you something?” JB nods, their gaze softening a little but no less piercing. “Back in Detroit, I worked with Co— the RK800 model that was first deployed. And Draw…looks just like him.”

JB nods sympathetically. Hank’s getting a bit tired of sympathetic. “I could see how that would be weird. Did you…not have much contact with androids before that?”

“Heh, you could say that.” Hank grimaces. “Certainly not any that I, uh, cared about.”

He feels like JB’s staring at him, and he wishes he had any idea how much shows on his face. Fortunately, they reach the car, and he gets a moment to compose himself as they get in. He starts them moving, then glances over.

“I was… That said, the way I treated him was shitty.”

JB’s eyebrows leap towards their hairline. “Yeah, it was.”

Hank hunches a little over the steering wheel. “Guess I should tell _him_ that.”

“That’d be the nice thing to do, though Draw won’t particularly care either way.”

Hank huffs out a laugh. “Sounds about right.”

They drive in silence for a while; Hank’s not quite comfortable enough with JB to inflict his taste in music on them yet. At a stoplight, JB reaches back their hand to Kendo, smiling at her. “You’re gonna get a dog walker or something?”

“Yeah. I got Sumo at home, too. He doesn’t mind laying around all the time, but… I gotta find some way to leave them both home, still taken care of.”

JB nods slowly. “Y’know, there’s an app a couple of my friends use. It’s basically like a dating app, but for pet care. Been around for ages. You should check it out.”

“That’d be great, actually.” Hank fishes his phone from his pocket, unlocks it when he can take his eyes off the road, and tosses it to JB. “Put a note, or something…”

“Will do.”

* * *

Every interrogation room looks approximately the same. Doesn’t help that the person seated across from Vilar is Draw, giving Hank a weird moment of déjà vu.

Hank hovers in the doorway of the observation room, still looking for an excuse to pull Draw out. But if he gave Connor a chance to do this, the least he can do is let Draw show him what he’s got. He takes a seat next to JB, crossing his arms over his chest.

Grace Vilar looks like absolute shit. Her chestnut hair used to be twisted into a bun; now it dangles to one side, ends sticking out. She was wearing eye makeup at some point, but most of it’s now smudged under her eyes or outlining the tear tracks on her cheeks. Her nose is red, matching the already-swollen bruises on her left cheekbone and jaw. She’s wearing an unseasonably warm coat, one Hank honestly has trouble believing anyone would ever need in LA, with a huge rip on the shoulder seam that’s now spilling cheap polyfill.

_Welcome back, Hank, the world still sucks ass._

Draw leans on his elbows, rapidly tapping a stylus against the table. His head is tilted to the side, but Hank can’t see his expression, all he can see is a far too familiar mole peeping out just behind Draw’s ear.

“We know everything that happened, you might as well tell us.” Delivered in the snottiest voice imaginable.

Vilar flinches, but doesn’t look up. Her fingers are splayed against her forehead and Hank has the feeling if Draw wasn’t leaning on the table, she would be.

“There’s more than enough physical evidence at the scene, and we haven’t even finished combing it. And we got plenty off _you_ when we processed you.” He keeps tapping for several seconds, then slams his palm against the table. “Are you listening to me?”

Vilar shrinks in on herself even more, hands sinking to clamp on her upper arms. A single greasy tear drags down her cheek. Hank can only imagine how the silence following must echo in there.

“You seem like a nice girl, Grace. You like to think you’re a nice girl? You know what happens to nice girls when they go to prison?” Draw looms across the table. “They’re gonna eat. You. A. Live.”

Vilar’s face contorts, then she turns away.

Draw seems to watch her for a moment, running some internal debate or letting her cool off. Suddenly, he leans back, sweeping his arms out in dismissal. “But fine, if you don’t wanna talk, that’s fine. Y’know, you can get the death penalty here for premeditated murder. Grace, do you think I could convince them it was premeditated? I do.” He stands, starting to pace. “You know what _I_ think is, juries _love_ to see a pretty little monster. They’ll love to blame you for it, all of it, say you gave as good as you got. The suitcase, the ticket? I can make them believe you goaded poor Paul into that last fight, lured him to the stairwell.”

Hank becomes conscious of the soft sound that’s been steadily rising in volume over the past minute. “No, no, no, no, no…”

Draw turns, slamming his palms on the table and making Vilar squeak sadly. “You’re going to suffer, and for what? You could’ve left any time, you—”

Hank’s throwing open the door before the conscious thought has fully formed. “That’s _enough,_ Draw.”

Like a switch has been flipped off, Draw straightens and turns, passing Hank with only a quick opaque glance. Or not exactly, more like Hank can’t quite interpret the smug half-smile. Hank watches him leave, nodding slowly, then finally crosses to the chair, pulls it out farther, and sits.

_Don’t threaten this poor kid._

“Wellp, I think we can both agree he’s the bad cop.”

For the first time since he’s been watching, Vilar’s eyes flick up.

He keeps his slight smile, considering how to fix this. His eyes fall closed, and he leans forward with elbows on his knees and hands dangling loosely. _Maybe time to get personal._

“Y’know, Grace, I’ve fucked up a lot in my life. I mean, I’ve gotta be double your age, so trust me, I had plenty of time to do some real stupid shit.” He studies her face, keeping his own relaxed in the off-chance she looks up again. “And I lied about it, too, and you know what the thing I’ve learned is? That’s the worst fuck up of ‘em all.”

Vilar doesn’t look up, but she does nod slowly, her fingers still making dents in her upper arms.

“Now, what Detective Draw said? There’s some truth in that. You’ve already suffered enough. It’s pretty clear whatever you did, you did in self-defence. You were scared. Your way out, that tiny gap of light you carved, was closing right in front of you.” He smiles glumly. “I’m not gonna lie to you, you’re gonna have to bear a little more shit before you can escape. But I believe in you, Grace. I believe you will.” Her eyes flick up again. This time, they stay. “But we need the truth. It’s gonna be hard as hell, sweetheart, but you can’t let that fucker win.”

He scootches the chair forward enough that he can rest his hands, loosely interwoven and palm-up, on the table. One of Vilar’s hands drops to grip the opposite edge.

He makes himself wait, still and relaxed, through her long silence. He can almost feel JB and Draw’s eyes from the other room. _Don’t get the wrong impression, I’m not some huge softy._

“I…he…” Vilar blinks like it takes effort. “He grabbed my throat.” Her fingers drift from her arm to brush at her neck; now that Hank looks, he can see another bruise, already starting to purple. “He was ready to kill me, I knew it. And then his fucking phone rang. Of all the things, one of his fuckin’ druggy friends saved me.” She shakes her head, incredulous and disgusted. “I just went to bed. I couldn’t do anything then. But I knew I had to get out.”

Hank nods sympathetically.

“I thought he’d sleep all day again, but he woke up when I was still packing the suitcase.” She meets his eyes with a flash of desperation, her voice cracking. “I tried, I tried. Mama always said talk it out, I tried. But he don’t talk.” Another tear rolls down her cheek, then another. “I tried to grab my bag and run… I shoulda just gone, left it. He come after me, he was screamin’, you shoulda heard the things he was sayin’, Detective. He caught me on the stairs. I thought I was gonna die, all over again. But he was the one that fell.”

Her face scrunches up, disgust, anger, shame, all passing in quick succession. And always that underlying thread of fear that can’t evaporate even with its source ostensibly gone.

“I… He was…”

“Grace. It’s okay.” _I mean, it’s not, but…_

Her eyes catch his again, and then she snaps a hand out, grabbing one of his.

 _Okay, I guess this is happening to me now._ Regardless of how he might feel about it, he squeezes her fingers back lightly.

“He was still movin’, when I got down there. And all I could think was, if he was all busted up, there’s no way I could leave him. I’d be stuck with him, and the drugs’d just get worse, and I’d just be playing maid to that needy little boy forever.” Her fingers tighten on his own. “I grabbed his head, I sat on him, Detective, I held him down while I hit him.” She shudders with revulsion. “‘Til he stopped moving.”

Hank waits a little, then prompts, “What’d you do after that, Grace?” keeping his voice level but stern.

Vilar swallows tightly. “Then… I thought, like…” She gives his hand a shake, fresh tears welling in her eyes, and voice coming out hollow and lost. “I didn’t wanna go to jail! I wanna go home. I thought… I thought maybe if I could make it look like it happened on the stairs…” She smiles glumly. “I know I’m not that smart. I thought of maybe calling one of Paulie’s friends, maybe they woulda known what to do, but I was scared… I was scared, and then I heard the sirens…”

Hank takes both her hands in his. “Grace, you’re doing something smart now by talkin’ about it. All this is gonna matter when you go to trial. I promise, things’ll be shit for a while, but someday, it’s gonna be okay.”

_I hope._

He pulls out of Vilar’s grip as gently as he can and starts to stand. “Look, I need to go talk with my fellow officers. You just sit tight here. You want some water?” He waits for her tentative nod. “I’ll get someone to grab you some water. Grace…honey…it’s gonna be okay.”

The last he sees of her is hope blooming faintly on her tear-stained face.

JB is stepping out into the hallway, but Hank ignores them completely, charging into the observation room and grabbing Draw by his lapels and jamming him back against the wall.

“What the hell was _that?!_ ”

Draw regards him with cool disinterest. “An interrogation.”

“Why’d you have to tear at her like that? She’s a fucking abuse victim, she’s terrified out of her fucking mind, last thing she needs is some emotionless piece of shit threatening to get her killed!”

He suddenly becomes all too aware of what he’s doing, thwacking Draw back against the concrete wall with each point. Hank tears his hands off Draw. Turning away just lands him in the full force of JB’s critical gaze, though.

“Sorry. Sorry, that was…” He swings his arms, as if dusting his hands off on his jeans.

“No offense taken, Lieutenant. You would have a hard time injuring me.” Draw straightens his jacket.

“Not the point,” Hank informs one of the unoccupied chairs.

“Anyway, to answer your question in full, I was intentionally distressing Vilar.” There’s something disturbing in how completely unperturbed Draw is. “If we had gone in with a sympathetic approach from the get-go, she would have persistently lied. I determined the best approach was to present her with a threatening adversary that was ejected by a saviour figure, that she would then be willing to open up to. Which is exactly what happened.” When Hank glances over, Draw’s watching him, the first spark of anything other than boredom and mild annoyance showing on his face. “What I didn’t expect, was for it to be you, rather than JB. You’re an interesting man, Lieutenant Anderson.”

Hank rears back, wrinkling his nose. “…Thanks, I guess.”

JB releases an audible breath. “I’m glad you two are making up, but Hank, I’m going to have to tell Sofia about this. You know that, right?”

Hank nods, sniffing. “Yeah. Yeah, that’s fair. Do what you gotta do.”

“Don’t bother.” Both of them look over at Draw, who is almost…smiling. “Lieutenant Anderson is under enormous stress at present, and, as I am uninjured, I see no cause to alert Captain Ngo. I would appreciate if similar outbursts didn’t happen in future, but perhaps as I become better acquainted with you, I’ll know how to avoid triggering such behaviour.”

Draw’s definitely fucking smiling, giving Hank one of those weird flirtatious sidelong looks. Hank avoids his eyes and marches stiffly out the door. “Thanks. I’ll, uh, I’ll try not to be a dick.”

The rest of the day is taken up with paperwork, so he can think about stupid new forms instead of…well, anything, to be honest. He catches himself indulging in the false comfort of anticipating blotting it all out later, and grimaces. Or maybe he still can, just with veggies or some shit. The thought is more depressing than anything else that’s happened today.

The first thing Hank does when he gets home is fling himself down on the couch and download the app JB’d suggested. Despite seeming thoroughly sick of him all day, Kendo piles happily into his lap. She’s starting to get too big for it, but that’s part of what he likes about these guys. Hank entices Sumo over too, burying a hand in his fur and provoking a noisy sigh.

The app takes him a few minutes to puzzle out--he’s sure the image-heavy design is very “intuitive” and “user-friendly” for anyone else--but eventually, he’s got a profile set up and starts browsing through the people on offer. Hank shakes his head; that makes it sound even more like a dating site, though perhaps that’s _also_ something he should think about downloading.

 _But I don’t_ want _some rando._

God knows, it feels like he’s browsing a hookup app, with how much aggressively tanned bare skin he’s seeing. Every profile looks about the same, sounds about the same. Probably any of these fuckers would be perfectly acceptable at chasing his dogs around.

And then a sucker punch.

Deep brown eyes that have haunted him for two fucking years stare back at him from a face he still remembers pressed against his cheek.

“Fuck.” Hank throws his phone across the couch. Kendo follows the arc of his hand like she’s thinking of fetching the phone, but Hank grabs her collar, rubbing her vigorously. Sumo finally looks up with something like mild concern.

Hank scrubs at his face, then reaches for his phone, dislodging Kendo. “Fuck.” He wishes he could think of some more emphatic curse, some kind of double fuck. He reopens to the app. Still Connor, not that other asshole, distinctly Connor.

A selfie taken with a wider smile than he’d ever seen on his face, one eye closed in an offensively natural-looking wink as an immaculate chocolate lab puppy leans back against his chest and licks his cheek.

The copy advertises the advantages of an android dog-walker: patience, a full suite of dog-training software guaranteed to improve the behaviour of even the most out-of-control pets, convenient 24-hour availability, including weekends, and boundless energy.

Boundless energy. Hank suppresses a shiver.

There were others of the same model, he knows this, he’s had his nose shoved in it these past two days, there’s no way that he could be the same one. No possible fucking way. “I hate this. I hate myself? I hate everything,” he tells the dogs conversationally as he taps back to his profile and changes his display name. At least the photo he’d picked mostly showed Kendo.

 _What, are you_ trying _to trick him into coming?_

_It’s not Connor, it’s not your Connor. Don’t get your fucking hopes up, you dumb shit._

_“I like dogs.” They probably_ all _like goddamn dogs. It’s. Not. Him._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> blessings upon my bro elliott (http://meowwounce.tumblr.com) for suggesting the name kendo but also hank is fired from naming his own dogs
> 
> disclaimer I know fuck all about LA so im sorry if anything is wildly inaccurate but also *wiggles fingers* FUTURE


	2. Rising on the dawn tide

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> emeto warning? general grossness warning? basically im sorry about crimeboy androids.

 

> [7:34pm] snowman: hey how are you with older dogs
> 
> [7:34pm] rK9: Hello! Older dogs are no problem; I find them quite helpful, as they contribute to socialising younger and problem dogs. I find St. Bernards have a particularly calming influence. I’m certain he’s good with your little girl there, isn’t he? And she’s a Bernese-Newfoundland cross primarily, yes? Another large, sweet-tempered dog; interesting. Returning to the question, I am fully capable of adjusting my exercise routines and routes for a dog with limited mobility or other needs while also providing the puppy with adequate stimulation.

“I didn't need a fucking essay, you tool.” Despite himself, Hank smiles. 

> [7:36 pm] snowman: yeah he’s great
> 
> [7:36 pm] snowman: kinda lazy like me so don’t go too easy on him but Kendo needs to be chased around more than I can manage
> 
> [7:36 pm] snowman: when can you start?
> 
> [7:36 pm] rK9: Oh! I actually prefer to meet up with clients before we start, if that’s alright? It helps my introduction to the animals and gives you a chance to ask any questions in person.

Hank sucks in air sharply.

_It’s not him, it’s not him, it’s not him._

> [7:40 pm] snowman: yeah sure okay
> 
> [7:40 pm] snowman: i uh
> 
> [7:40 pm] snowman: i work long hours is it okay if its late?
> 
> [7:41 pm] rK9: Absolutely! I don’t sleep, after all. :)

“What the fuck is that,” he asks Sumo, who has zero helpful contributions.

> [7:41 pm] snowman: great how does tomorrow evening sound?

Hank sends over his details, then casts his phone down on the couch. _Guess there’s no reason to keep talking to him. What am I gonna say? “Hey, you look like the person I’ve been pining over like a delusional dipshit for the past two years, how’s your evening going?”_

Heaving a disappointed sigh at himself, he picks his phone up, reopens the app, and holds a finger on the picture of Connor. No prompt to save it appears, so he snaps a screenshot. Then deletes it. Then takes another one, scrolls through to take another, captures each of the artfully gorgeous pictures.

“I am a sad old creep,” he tells Sumo, who doesn’t seem to disagree.

_Who took those photos of you?_

He shoves his phone in his pocket and hauls himself towards the kitchen.

There are ghosts here, as he throws together some premade pasta sauce and noodles. Recent ghosts of Ayesha and Lucas, a droplet of dried pancake batter and a sticky cup ring left on the counter. Older ghosts, ones that were never in this small house but follow him just the same, reminding him of noisy rushed suppers between piano practice and soccer, Cole kicking his feet as he sat on a bar stool and watched Hank cook. Cayleigh never let him sit on them, even years after that one fall, but Hank? Hank was the fun, indulgent parent, Hank told him to keep it secret from Mom and flicked water at Cole from the pepper he was slicing.

He’s used to flinching away from these feelings, used to dulling them, making the ghosts blurry and harmless. He’s a busy guy, got no time for dwelling, even if there always seemed to be time for getting pissed drunk at the bar.

Hank watches the water roil for several minutes before he remembers to dump noodles in. “Being sober fucking sucks,” he calls over his shoulder at Sumo, who groans in his sleep.

He can feel those boxes in the garage, as if they were some dark sun catching him in their gravity. _Maybe Jeffrey’s right, maybe it’d be better if I got rid of them._ Hank sniffs, face screwing up briefly, then wipes his hand across his face, telling himself it’s the steam.

Some part of him knows he’s prodding at this older sore to avoid thinking about the new one that’s opened up. Or any of the other uncomfortable shit he could be thinking about, the shame at his behaviour in the observation room, worry over what JB might have relayed back to the Captain, the unsettled feeling Draw gives him, the triumph of a case closed overridden by another story where there are no winners. The fact that he’s scoured two grocery stores so far and can’t find the same damn brand of pasta sauce that used to be his go-to back in Detroit, some generic shit he thought would be available everywhere but apparently fucking _not_.

He skirts the bar separating kitchen from livingroom and plucks the remote off the already-messy coffee table, flicks on the TV to some sitcom he only has a passing knowledge of. Cranks it up loud enough that Sumo grumbles and trundles off to the bedroom.

Hank stares unseeing out into the dusk until the stove timer dings.

* * *

Mornings are an unfamiliar indulgence. He takes Kendo for another jog, starting to feel a little less stupid about it, then gets back and finds there’s still time and energy to take Sumo around the block. He eats cereal standing on the back patio wearing sweats and his old DPD hoodie, watches the progression of light from the muted clarity of predawn through to the slowly welling gold of daybreak.

The pups whuffle around the compact yard, and Hank smiles at them absently, thinking about lawn furniture. Maybe a person could find jogging buddies. People who might watch a game with him, go to shows, grab a burger. Come over evenings after work and sag in creaky chairs under creeping dusk and laugh about their day over a beer. Or not.

It’s starting to feel like he has a very embarrassing allergy.

This third day, he’s spending less of the drive to work swearing at the GPS and more of it just enjoying himself. The Shimizu still handles a little weird, and he misses the soft rumble that enveloped the Buick’s frame, its smell of old smoke and weathered leather and a whole suite of undefinable scents that reminded him of childhood roadtrips and happier times.

Cayleigh’d been the smoker. They each had their vices, and that was hers, though god knows temperance wasn’t her style either. She quit when they were trying for Cole, and made it all of seven years without them. Right up until about an hour after the hospital called her. And he couldn’t fault her for it at first, not like he was handling it any better. Up until he couldn’t, and started a stupid-ass fight that led to him booking a motel room because he was too damn proud to call Jeffrey, or more like too damn certain Jeffrey wouldn’t let him spend the night sucking face with a bottle.

He never slept in that house again, but he never threw out the last pack she’d left in the Buick.

Even at the time, he’d known the statistics, knew the whole “couples always split up after the death of a child” thing was bunk. In his line of work, he’s seen time and time again how it drew people closer, deepened those bonds, how couples fought to hold onto the love they still had.

_Guess the two of us just weren’t interested in trying._

Once upon a time, they convinced themselves something different, but if he’s honest with himself, their marriage was always built more on mutual respect and desire for the stable home neither of them grew up with, not some grand romantic love. Firm enough foundations that could’ve grown into something beautiful, something greater, if either of them had ever bothered to tend to it. After almost a decade, they should’ve admitted that was never gonna happen. An inevitability that just needed a convenient excuse.

_Still hurt._

_But in the end, I adjusted._

Just like he can adjust to the Shimizu’s synthetic stink. _I guess._ _Never been much for that new car smell._

Brown eyes flash in his mind. He can almost taste that non-scent of plastic and silicone and whatever else androids are made of, that faint warm electrical buzz, the unfamiliar waft of each inert unnecessary breath when they speak. When he spoke.

_Would that have been some grand romance? Or would I have been lying to myself again?_

_It’s not him._

Waiting at a stoplight, he shakes his head, reaches a hand back to Kendo. “You excited to make another new friend, girl?” She bumps his hand with her nose and gives him a wet lick. Hank chuckles to himself, wiping his hand on his thigh as he pulls into the intersection.

He runs into Sindri collecting a sheaf of papers from the front desk. “Morning, Hank! Quite the early bird, aren’t ya?”

Hank half-shrugs. “Just trying to win brownie points so I can get away with dicking off later.”

With a bray of laughter, Sindri turns, falling into pace beside Hank, or almost: it’s not often Hank’s the one hustling to keep up. “You’re certainly well on your way. Good work with the case yesterday!”

“Er, thanks. I think JB and Draw woulda managed just fine without me, it wasn’t exactly complicated…”

“Well, yeah, they’re a great team! But you're still the guy got a confession out of that woman.”

Hank pulls a face. _If you were just gonna agree that I was mostly pointless, why say anything in the first place?_ “Guess so. Hey, I--”

“Good, you’re here. I’m sending you out.” Captain Sofia advances on them, eyes on a tablet that she thrusts out at Sindri when she gets close. Then, without breaking her stern expression, she crouches down to pet Kendo. “Big names in this one, trust fund kid. Well, not a kid, but you wouldn’t know that from talking to the mother.”

Hank peers over Sindri’s shoulder; he angles the tablet so Hank can see as well.

Ryan Pollock, age thirty-three. Cause of death pending, suspected poisoning. Founder of Pulse Labs, MSc from UCSD, PhD from Johns Hopkins, both for biomedical engineering, whatever the hell that means. Apparently something to do with nanotech. The dossier is headed by a photo from a motorcycle license, showing a generically handsome white man with glossy black hair and a bright, toothy smile that speak more to lifelong pampering than anything else.

“He looks like a douche.”

There’s a moment of silence before Sindri snorts a laugh. “You’re lucky Sofia didn’t hear you say that.” He gestures with the tablet to where she’s wincing sympathetically at JB as they speak placatingly on the phone. “Though don’t think she’s a fan either… Well. Need to grab anything, or should we go?”

Hank scans the room, glancing over his still sparse desk. His eyes light on Draw, standing stiffly at the edge of the room with his arms behind his back like he’s been docked there. Hank’s eyes narrow slightly. _At least that fucker’s not insisting on babysitting this time._

“We’re good, let’s go.”

Sindri initially proposes they take his car, only to stand looking disproportionally crestfallen as they stare at his diminutive two-seater.

“I could leave her here, I’m pretty sure the Captain wouldn’t mind watching her.” _How do you even_ fit _in that thing, you human shoelace?_

“No, it’s fine,” Sindri sighs, “we can take yours.” He ruffles Kendo’s ears as if to tell her it’s not her fault.

Hank nods once. “I’ll take her up; this guy’s not gonna get any deader. Probably shouldn’t be leaving her in the car, anyway. C’mon, girl.” Kendo obediently trots along with him back to the elevator. He glances at the door to the stairs as he waits; no sense in going _too_ crazy on this whole healthy living kick.

The elevator dings. Hank’s still glaring at the door.

Feeling exceptionally put-upon by his own newly-discovered conscience, Hank clucks his tongue at Kendo, tugging her lead towards the stairs. “C’mon, girl. Guess we’re doing this.”

The bullpen still has a nervous energy to it; even the cops that’ve filed in since he and Sindri left seem agitated. He can see Sofia on the phone in her office, pacing, and he suddenly feels exceptionally guilty.

 _“I like to meet clients first.” Get. Fucked. I need help_ now _, I shoulda just picked someone else._ But he knows damn well there was zero chance of that the second he clapped eyes on that face.

Unwilling, his eyes slide to the side of the room where Draw’d been looming, but he finds him gone. Draw’s now at his desk, looking particularly constipated; seeming to feel Hank’s eyes on him, he glances up, then outright glares. Hank resists the urge to return it, fixing his eyes on Sofia.

She’s now off the phone and pinching the bridge of her nose. Hank knocks on her door about as tentatively as he can manage. Without looking, she beckons him in.

“Hank. Something wrong?” she almost snaps.

“No. Yes? Sindri’s…” He’s getting that feeling like he’s a kid begging to be allowed on a suspect outing, all his rationales why he should be out past his bedtime turned flimsy. “He wanted to take his car, but Kendo won’t fit, and you seem to like her, I wondered…”

“Absolutely.”

Hank’s braced for the “not” following it, but it doesn’t come. For the first time since he’s seen her this morning, the crease between her brows eases. As if understanding the changeover, Kendo trots over, fluffy tail wagging with admirable restraint.

“I’m meeting a walker tonight, this shouldn’t happen again.”

“The dog mom in me says boo, but the captain in me says good, about time.” She runs her hands through Kendo’s silky fur, but her eyes are fixed on Hank. “This move wasn’t a surprise, I’m a little concerned you didn’t arrange something in advance.”

Hank opens his mouth. _Should I come clean?_ He gives her a crooked smile. “There were some hiccups with the movers, and it slipped my mind. You know how it is, you get used to a routine, get used to someone just being there for you…” Michael had been a dependable dog walker back home, and had minded his own business if sometimes he showed up to find Hank in a sodden heap. “I just didn’t remember ‘til I was actually coming in.” _Am I making too many excuses?_

_It’s still not entirely a lie._

Sofia pins him with her eyes for another couple of seconds. They tick by like hours. Then she smiles. “I get it. Last time we moved, I forgot to change our mail for _months_. Jackie was _furious_.” She pulls a chagrined smile. “Especially when I stuck my foot in my mouth and said anything 'important' came to the office.”

Hank chuckles; he’s been there, in his own way. “Hard to keep the work-home balance, huh?” _Been a long time since I tried._

“Yeah. How do you keep your balance, Hank?”

Again, those eyes that pierce him through to prise open all his faults. But the one advantage of being sober is he’s a better liar now. “Watching basketball, ruining my hearing with metal. Been running with the little girl, lately. It’s disgustingly relaxing.”

Sofia nods. “I hope I get to meet your other baby sometime… Anyway, we shouldn’t leave Sindri waiting. Though…” She peers around Hank, then walks past him to crack open the door. “Kenzie? Any word from the Pollock scene?”

“I’ll check in!” calls a detective.

“Great. Draw, can you come here?”

Hank rolls his eyes at Kendo; she just steps over to him and gazes up lovingly.

Sofia walks back to her desk. “Anyway, I’m glad you’re meeting this dog walker before you agree to anything. I don’t mean to be a fearmonger, but people like that can be…sketchy.”

Hank smiles wistfully. “Don’t worry about that, something tells me I can trust this guy.” Sofia raises an eyebrow and Hank prays he doesn’t look too much like a lovestruck idiot. More lies.

“Well, don’t— Oh, Draw.”

“Will you let me go with them _now?_ ”

Hank crosses his arms.

“You know the rules. You are not allowed to start until your allotted shift begins, excluding emergencies, which,” she raises a hand to stifle Draw’s protest, “this man is not.” Sofia glares down Draw a moment longer, then gives Hank an exasperated smile. “Draw has some trouble with that work-life balance we were talking about.”

“With respect, Captain, an android doesn’t have a 'life.'”

Hank snorts.

Before Sofia can answer, there’s a short rap at the door, then Kenzie pokes her head inside, curls bouncing against her forehead. “CyberLife says he should be safe.”

“Good. I’m going to go do my job, now.” Draw’s already turning to leave.

“Wait, wait wait…” Hank turns back to Sofia, raising his palms. “Am I reading this right? You were gonna send us into a situation you deemed too dangerous for Superman over here?”

Sofia cringes but she meets Hank’s eyes stolidly. “Yes. Given the nature of Pollock’s research and the level of secrecy around it… To be frank, I know what will happen if you or Sergeant Sindri are exposed to poison. I don’t know what will happen if Draw becomes compromised by some unknown nanobot technology, and an out-of-control Superman, as you so helpfully put it, could be a serious public hazard.”

“Plus, I assume replacing him costs more than replacing me,” Hank grouses.

Sofia winces again. “That too. Look, there’s precautions set up on the other end, you’ll be fine. Just…Draw? Don’t personally sample anything.”

Hank wrinkles his nose, glancing at Draw in time to see his unwilling nod. “Wellp, Sindri’s probably wondering where the hell I am. If we’re gonna go, we should go.” He glances between Kendo and Sofia. “I guess, if there’s three of us, we oughta take my car anyway…”

Sofia makes big eyes at Kendo. “I mean, she could still stay here, I wouldn’t mind…”

“ _I_ liked having Kendo with us yesterday.”

Hank resists the urge to clutch Kendo’s leash and yank her away from Draw. Especially when he puts his hands out and she traitorously pads over with a lolling grin. _How does this fucker know her name_ , he grumps, ignoring the probably hundred times he’s said it in front of him.

Sofia presses her lips together. “That's great, but you’ll be busy when you’re there, and she can’t just sit in a car. Perhaps you could make plans with Hank to play with her later?”

_Are we five?_

Draw stiffens. “I don’t want to _play_ with her, Captain Ngo, I just think her presence contributed to the positive atmosphere while we were in transit.”

“What contributed was you not being there on the way back,” Hank mutters; Draw gives him a sidelong glare.

Sofia's attention is on him in an instant. "Is there a problem, Lieutenant?"

"No," he replies, sounding a little too sullen for it to be convincing.

Sofia sighs, looking more her age for a second, then straightens, eyes flashing. “Hank, leave Kendo with me. Both of you, I expect professional and civil conduct. Now, go! I want this case over and dealt with ASAP.”

“Got it.” It feels like an anticlimactic response to tentatively hold out Kendo’s lead, but here they are. Hank nods briskly and turns to leave.

_Looking to start a new disciplinary file early, huh?_

They meet Sindri coming off the elevator; he goes from a concerned frown to a look of understanding when he sees Hank with Draw in tow.

“Guess we’re taking yours after all, huh?”

“Yeah, sorry to disappoint.” Feeling some remorse, Hank side-eyes Draw as they get on the elevator. “I’d bitch about having a babysitter again, but I think you’re gonna come in handy with this one.”

Draw stares at the button panel blandly for a split second, then turns to him and says, “Oh, you were talking about me? Obviously.”

Hank rolls his eyes again, leaning back against the rear wall of the elevator. “Dick.”

“Unprofessional dilettante.”

Sindri utters a smothered squeak, looking scandalised; Hank has to try not to laugh.

Despite his disappointment, Sindri spends the first half of the car ride gushing over Hank’s car, pointing out half a dozen functions that Hank had forgotten the instant the salesperson pointed them out and forgets again thirty seconds after Sindri mentions them. Sindri doesn’t seem to require Hank or Draw’s participation in the conversation, and Hank has a feeling it could become obnoxious, but right now, it’s pretty entertaining. Draw, for his part, spends the entire time staring down at his hands in his lap. If Hank misses Kendo’s presence, at least he can gain some satisfaction from ticking Draw off.

_I’m already gonna miss having her around._

He skirts around thinking about this evening head-on. _Maybe I should cancel, find someone else. Someone I can just leave them with and go, not think about it._

Self-control has never been his strong suit.

* * *

The building is a knife of glass against the sky, built decades ago with a utilitarian modernity that now seems dated. The entrance is topped simply with the address number, the transparent glass of the inset entryway capturing and flattening the soft morning light. Off to the side, stone and metal sweep up into the backdrop of what was once a fountain, now filled with drought-resistant plants. And there, thronging around its base like a swarm of buzzing flies, are the press.

Hank pulls up to the curb, sparing a thought for the woman yesterday, for all the little people whose personal tragedies aren’t important or lurid enough to be worthy of media attention. He keeps his head down, trailing after Sindri and letting him pepper around the “no comment”s and “we don’t know yet”s. Hank’s garnering a few curious looks, but he knows he’s hardly remarkable. Draw, on the other hand… Hank glances over his shoulder in time to catch Draw giving a camera operator the most immaculately dead-eyed stare before batting aside the lens stuck in his face. Swallowing a chuckle, Hank hustles after Sindri.

They’re directed to the fourth floor, met at the elevator by a stiff-backed uniformed officer who introduces herself as Officer Martinez. She ushers them past another officer hovering over a young man hunched on a bench with his dark, curly head in his hands. Hank watches Draw give him a once-over, then eyes him curiously as well: late twenties or early thirties, South Asian, fat in a pleasingly plush way. Smudged thin-rimmed glasses, subtle iridescent green, lie beside him on the seat, and he wears a pastel orange button-up open at the collar and a pair of dark wash jeans. There are old acne scars on his cheeks, and overall, he's less manicured-looking than the photo of Pollock, but still well-kept. Looks very much like he’s having the worst day of his life.

Hank purses his lips, then hurries his steps to catch up with Martinez and the rest as they step through the entrance of a small white tent taking up the entire hallway.

“This doesn’t look good,” Hank mutters to Sindri, who grimaces.

“We don’t know the exact cause of death yet, and due to the nature of Pollock’s research, contaminant protocols are in place,” Martinez intones, gesturing at some neatly-folded white bundles and masks resting on folding chairs.

“Fucking fantastic.” Hank grabs one of the bundles and shakes out the suit; hopefully, it’ll fit.

It does, but barely, and Hank feels like the legs’ll rip clean off if he takes an overly-enthusiastic step. At least Sindri’s in the same boat, futilely adjusting the crinkly plastic on his shoulders, then giving Hank a thumbs up and what he assumes is an awkward smile from behind the mask. Draw, for his part, gives the suit a fastidious inspection before stepping into it with irritating ease; he gives the mask a similar assay, but places it back on the chair. Hank takes some satisfaction in the fact that he looks somehow stupider without it, the hood crinkling around his weird-shaped face and making his paleness starker.

The entrance to Pulse Labs is all glass and dark bronze metal extending in offset horizontal bands that near-seamlessly streak from the beige hallway walls across the door and window. There’s a piece of abstract art in similar rich neutrals dominating the small lobby area and a small fountain installed below it, this one burbling softly; Hank’s certain it’s all very Aesthetic.

_So, parents were willing to shell out for fancy upgrades but only sprung for a spot in some nothing corner of town. Huh. Or was it a safety issue?_

They follow a now cleansuit-clad Martinez further in, past what looks like a meeting room, break room, and an office space with a few desks and terminals, to an immense doubled pair of glass doors that make up an entire wall of the next room. Less about aesthetics, these ones. Especially with dried…blood? splattered on the inner pane.

“Oh, wow…” Sindri raises his hand approximately to where his mouth is.

“Yeah, it’s gross in there, not gonna lie. Hang onto your asses,” Martinez deadpans, waving a card over a sensor. The first doors slide open.

Hank should be paying attention to the gleamingly clean lab, taking in the situation under which Pollock met his demise. All he can see is the body.

It’s hard to recognise him as the man from the photo earlier. Ryan Pollock lies on his back, but there’s nothing relaxed about the pose, his elbows tight against his sides and legs rigid and straight. His brown eyes are bloodshot, reddened and protruding, lips pulled back from his teeth in an unnatural grimace. Vomit trails from the corner of his mouth, laced with now-dried blood. Hank glances back at the glass doors, swallowing a wave of sympathetic nausea.

Pollock was wearing a clean suit similar to theirs at some point, but it trails tangled on the floor like a shed skin, still attached at one ankle. The inside is splattered and smeared with more vomit. Hank hopes it’s all vomit. He tries not to inhale too deeply. Underneath, Pollock has on a forest green t-shirt and a pair of black sweats that look like together they cost more than Hank’s car, or at least they did before they were soaked with various bodily fluids that Hank decides not to think about too much until someone makes him. Pollock’s exposed arms are equally grotesque, blistered dramatically, the skin blotchy and reddened. One spans from the back of his wrist to his palm; it’s burst, shining wetly each time the crime scene photographer’s camera flashes.

For the first time since he came to LA, Hank feels cold. “What the actual fuck happened here,” he demands quietly of the room.

“Great question!” A stout white-clad figure crouches next to the body; as she speaks, she slaps her thighs and rises to her feet with a groan. The face behind the mask is approximately his age, a beautiful oval with a serene, disarming expression that seems utterly at odds with this stark, comfortless environment. “Ray Amjad, by the way, Chief M.E.” She extends her hand, eyes crinkling as she looks up at him.

Hank tries to be surreptitious about checking her gloved hand for any Fluids, then takes it, giving it a hearty shake. “Hank Anderson, lieutenant, Homicide. Nice to meet you.”

As if they weren’t there, Draw budges between them, dropping to one knee next to the body. He reaches for Pollock’s cheek.

Hank snaps out his hand, grabbing the back of Draw’s suit and yanking him backwards. “You were straight-up told _not_ to—”

Making steady eye contact the entire time, Draw sticks his fingers in the barf and puts them in his mouth.

Hank opens his mouth. Closes it. Attempts to rub between his eyes, is stopped by the mask. Growls out,  “You…!”

Ray lowers herself beside Draw, a small ball beside his blocky form. “Anything of note?”

Draw shakes his head, still pouring over the body. “No, there’s actually nothing suspicious, beyond the blood. I think he had pasta with a Mornay sauce for dinner.”

Hank wracks his brain for half a beat. “Can’t you just say mac and cheese like a normal person?”

“No,” Draw replies, not looking up.

Ray chuckles, using the tip of a pen to nudge Pollock’s fist open. “As to your rather coarsely-delivered question, Lieutenant, I think the ultimate answer will be asphyxiation, either due to aspiration of fluids or failure of the respiratory muscles, but that doesn’t really help nail down why or how.” Gingerly, she lifts Pollock’s hand, examining his fingers in the unforgiving light. “We’ll need to take tissue samples—and _no_ , Draw, you are not munching on pieces of his lungs. That’s a little too grim, even for me.”

“I wasn’t planning to,” Draw says, in a tone of voice that implies he definitely was.

Hank edges around them towards the rest of the lab. “Great. Good for you. I’m gonna, uh, go…away.”

“We’ll talk again once I have more info,” Ray says, not looking up.

Hank inhales slowly, wishing the respirator cut out smells, and finally surveys the room.

Metal workbenches line either side and run up the center of the long, aggressively-lit lab. Midway down the right side is a door, seeming like it leads to storage. The back wall is occupied by a bank of glass-fronted cabinets with neatly printed labels he can’t read from here, and what looks like a first aid station. No windows. On the left are two long fume hoods that conjure vague memories of highschool chemistry, bracketed by large tanks of liquid with ominous tubing coiling out of them, and to the near side of them, an immense trough of a sink. Pressure valves and more tubing coil out of the walls above the workbenches. There are various pieces of large obscure machinery: one looks like a cross between a freezer lid and a waffle iron, with tubing running out of one corner and into the wall. Another, he’s pretty certain is some kind of fancy microscope, and there’s another station that looks like an oldschool VR setup with mask and gloves, connected to another sleek white machine via bundles of wires. Nearby by is something he wouldn’t recognise either except for the notice above it declaring DO NOT USE 3D PRINTER FOR PERSONAL PROJECTS I WILL SKIN YOU.

_Charming workplace environment._

Sindri’s bent over near the headset. Hank’d almost forgotten he was here, but he heads over curiously.

“I think this is where things went bad,” Sindri says, crouching down further to peek inside the headset. “I wonder what he was doing... You think this’ll fit over our masks?”

“Doubt it.” Glancing back towards the entrance, he doesn’t see another respirator, though there is a simple cloth face mask lying limply on the floor under the bench not far away. _More worried about what came out than in?_ Hank waves Martinez and the photographer over. “Mark that, and get someone to swab the inside of this thing. He could’ve been exposed through skin.”

It’s hard to tell in this hyper-clean environment, but now he’s looking, there are signs of struggle. A chair knocked askew when every other is neatly tucked in, a smeared handprint; he flags Martinez to mark that too, though they probably won’t get anything off it considering the gloves discarded further along.

_Fleeing someone? Trying to get help?_

“Hey, Amjad… Doctor Amjad? Pollock got his fob on him?”

“Just Ray’s fine. N…” she rummages for a second. “Oh, it’s on his suit, yes!”

Hank walks over, arms crossed. “You think they keep logs of who’s in and out? Draw, can you like, talk to the lock?”

“Yes,” Draw answers with clear distaste, “I can ‘like talk to the lock.’” He rises, stripping off one glove, and touches his fingers to the small black box with its beady LEDs, the skin retracting from his fingertips in a way that still sends an uneasy shiver down Hank’s spine.

Shrugging it off, he goes to stand at Draw’s shoulder. “Didn’t they have any way to call for help from inside? I saw a shower and a first aid kit on that back wall, it’s not like they thought nothing would go wrong…”

“Someone might have disabled external communication, or Pollock may have been cognitively impaired. The last person to use this door before Bennett Lal at oh-seven-forty-four was Ryan Pollock. He activated the internal lock at oh-two-seventeen, but not the external one; that is, I believe, proximate to time of death, yes?” He cranes over his shoulder, and Hank follows his line of sight to see Ray nod. When Hank turns back, Draw is staring at him from uncomfortably close; Hank frowns, but some stupid lizard brain posturing keeps him from stepping away. Draw blinks slowly. “All other entrants accounted for, the last to leave being, again, Bennett Lal, at twenty-three-forty-three. He’s the one in the hall,” he adds helpfully, as though Hank couldn’t’ve figured that one out.

“Well, shit.” He finally lets himself shift away from Draw. “We got ourselves a locked-room mystery.”

“I suppose so,” Ray says, beckoning to another clean suit-clad person with a stretcher and a small army of what Hank assumes to be CSIs on the other side of the door.

Hank glances back at Draw. “There any way someone could bypass the lock?”

“I guess they could. I’d find traces of it, though.” Draw raises an eyebrow. “You _do_ understand how poisons work, don’t you, Lieutenant? He could’ve been exposed hours before succumbing, or been exposed steadily over time.”

He bristles. “This’s a little dramatic for chronic exposure, isn’t?” _Two can play the snotty know-it-all game._

Another slow blink. “True. I was simply pointing out that Pollock being alone at the time of his death may be immaterial.”

“Thanks for that.” Hank goes to rub his jaw and stick a hand in a pocket, thwarted in both endeavours.

“You seem to have a habit of touching your face, Lieutenant. Generally ill-advised at a crime scene.”

“Yeah, well, hasn’t got me in trouble yet,” Hank mutters, heading back up the room. There’s still that door to investigate.

It leads to an unassuming storage closet, modified for cleaning equipment, another one of those trough sinks taking up most of the external wall. Hank’s certain the thing looking like an oversized rice cooker and blaring an impatient CLEAN light has some kinda fancy name, but “souped-up science dishwasher” will have to do. He pokes around, but nothing seems out of place or particularly more toxic than what’s out in the lab.

There’s a wooden door at the far end, reminiscent of school hallways from his childhood. Hank pushes through; on the other side is a long, narrow room that must abutt on the external hall. An automatic light flickers on, revealing small cages on shelves lining the wall from hip height up.

“Ugh.” Hank steps over, resting a gloved fingertip on the bars of one cage. After a few seconds, a tiny pink nose snuffles at him, then tries to chew on the glove. He half-smiles, quirking his finger to stroke the mouse’s nose.

They seem healthy, well-fed. Not exhibiting any 28-Days-Later-esque rabidness, curious at his intrusion but shy if he moves too fast. Freakishly normal, despite the sterile environment and the ominous strings of letters and numbers labelling each bank of cages.

His smile takes on a more wistful cast. Cole had waited months for his turn to take home the class pets, a pair of gerbils named Hot Dog and Bathroom Break. And then, when it was his turn, he was laid up with a nasty flu. Hank can see him clear as day in that video, sitting up in bed against a pile of every extra pillow in the house, hiccuping and crying with a toothless lisp that he was “gonna get bassoom b’eak shick.”

He’d almost deleted it to make room on his phone. Five year olds do a lotta cute shit; that’d been three days after the video of him playing “hockey” on a three foot square of ice with a little branch from the maple, two weeks before the pic of Cole passed out in his slice of Great Aunt Patricia’s birthday cake. All of these snapshots, they were probably always gonna be somewhere in the cloud, always gonna be around for him, just like Cole. Second-hand memories, seen through the remote rectangle of a phone screen, because there were always more bad guys to catch, and hey, maybe Hank was getting up there, but they had time, right?

_Been a while since I watched that one._

_Longer since I watched it sober._

“Everything alright, Lieutenant?”

“Jesus fuck!” Hank whirls, then turns away, embarrassed. “Scared me, Draw.”

“Sergeant Sindri requested you start interviewing Lal. Officers are rounding up Pulse Lab’s other employees in addition to building staff; you’re to move on to them after.” Just as Hank had, Draw holds a finger out to one of the mice, wiggling it enticingly.

“Right, right…” Hank gives Draw a sidelong look. “You’re not gonna put any mouse shit in your mouth, are you?”

“I don’t see any reason to, at present.” Draw glances at him. “Lieutenant Anderson, my ability to provide on-the-go analyses is an extremely useful feature. I’d think you, of all people, would have appreciation for that. And anyway, I have self-sanitizing capabilities; my mouth is probably significantly cleaner than yours.”

Hank squints at him peevishly. “How’d you manage to say a semicolon out loud?”

Draw doesn’t seem inclined to dignify that with a response, just turns back to the mice.

Hank considers him a moment longer. “You got pets?”

Draw straightens. “No. Why would I?”

He rolls his eyes. “Yeah, ‘course not. Forget I asked.” Hank surveys the cages again, then glances at the open metal vent at the bottom of the door. “I don’t think we need these respirators.”

He can feel Draw’s scrutiny. “I think you’re correct, Lieutenant.”

“Well.” He turns, waiting for Draw to move from the doorway. The android stares back at him implacably; after a second, Hank shakes his head and shuffles awkwardly around him. “See ya.”

“Later, Lieutenant.”

Hank doesn’t look back, steps quick at the prospect of stripping off the clean suit. He passes Sindri, identifiable mainly by his height, with a nod.

“Draw find you?” Hank grunts assent. “Good. I’ll be out there soon.”

Hank has never felt so grateful to take an item of clothing off. The building’s air conditioned, and now that he’s out of the lab, he’s back to being pleasantly cool instead of bone-penetratingly chill. He stuffs the clean suit into a large bin that already has a few discarded in it and steps out into the hall.

Bennett Lal looks a bit more together than he did when they first passed him. He’s rubbing futilely at his glasses with the hem of his button-up, snuffling occasionally, but he rises when Hank approaches.

“You’re the detective? You—is there—can you tell me anything?” He takes a few steps towards Hank, hands coming up as though he might grab him.

Hank raises his hands, warding him off. “I was actually hoping you could answer some questions for me.”

“Oh.” Lal presses his lips together. “I already told the other officer everything—”

“Well, now you get to tell _me_.” Hank tries to soften his expression. “You wanna sit down?”

Lal shakes his head, fidgeting with his glasses, then slipping them on.

“Okay.” Automatically, Hank reaches for a breast pocket and a notepad that’s not there. Rolling his eyes at himself, he finds his phone; hopefully, Lal won’t talk too fast. “To start with, mind explaining to me what the heck you guys are doing here?”

Lal’s eyes widen, then he palpably relaxes. “It’s pretty cool stuff, actually! We’re building artificial immune systems.” Hank raises his eyebrows, waving for Lal to elaborate. “We’ve been losing the battle against antibiotic-resistant bugs for decades now, I mean, basically since penicillin was discovered. So our bots don’t rely solely on chemistry. Beat A, our first type, mechanically lyse cells, killing them and coming out ready to tackle the next thing that comes their way. Beat C are smaller and can shapechange to mimic benign chemicals and proteins, infiltrating and disrupting the bacterial cell’s function and ultimately destroying them. And the best part is, they’re AI-controlled. All the information they collect when they encounter a new pathogen is relayed back to it, so the colony can be prepared for the next wave. Every success, every failure, is data shared amongst all the bots, making them stronger.”

“Sounds good?” Hank offers.

Lal gives him a tired smile. “It’s like the bacteria are up against a real battery, instead of a pitching machine. Something that can outthink them, that can adapt almost as quick as they can.”

“Great. So, why’re you making it in a closet in some shit corner of town?”

With a start, Lal seems to remember he’s answering questions in a police investigation, not charming the wallets off potential investors. He recovers quickly, though.  “Well, it’s still in development. Getting the components down to a safe size while maintaining their function is tricky, and we want to be sure we’ve got it right before introducing it to a human system.” He slips his glasses back off, giving the lenses a critical look. “We’re gearing up to shop it around big pharma this summer, see if anyone bites so we can move on to more sophisticated trials.” His face falls and he slowly lowers his glasses. “Guess…dunno what’ll happen now. This was Ryan’s baby…” His brows scrunch up, and he raises his hands a little way before dropping them against his thighs.

Hank watches him for a long moment, then clears his throat. “Right. Can you walk me through this morning? Or actually, start last night. You were the last one to leave?”

Lal nods mutely. After a moment, voice soft, he shrugs and starts, “Everything seemed fine. Ryan was being…Ryan, barely had the time of day for me, or anyone but that littl— He barely even said goodnight, y’know? The last thing I said to him was ‘Fine, fucker.’”

Hank keeps his expression neutral. “Was your relationship strained?”

Lal flinches, then his cheeks darken. “Strained… I don’t want you to get the wrong idea, just… You know somebody for a long time, there’s a lotta layers, lotta history. None of it had to do with work, though, I loved working on this project.”

Brows knitted, Hank taps a finger against the edge of his phone. “Care to elaborate?”

“Not really.” Lal smiles like he’s hoping to get away with it.

He sighs, crossing his arms. “Not gonna cut it, kid. Spit it out.”

Lal’s mouth scrunches, then he covers his face with both hands, glasses dangling. “Look, we fucked, okay? And Ryan was a piece of shit about it. What else is new. But that was ages—the last time was months ago.”

The corner of Hank’s mouth quirks up in a bitter smile. “What flavour was it? Didn’t want people knowing he was into dudes, didn’t want them knowing he was into fat ones, or just plain ol’ vanilla commitment issues?”

Lal’s eyes widen behind his fingers, then he slowly lowers his hands, sticking one in his pocket. “Probably a combination, though Ryan’s not shy about that first.”

Hank raises his eyebrows, looking at his phone. “Was Ryan seeing anybody currently?”

Lal pulls a face. “Not exactly. He had some boytoy he was all over, but it sounded like it wasn’t serious. Purely physical. Like he was with me.”

Hank rolls his eyes internally; he’s glad he’s past all this youthful drama. “Boytoy got a name?”

“I dunno, Eric?” Lal shakes his head. “I doubt he’s involved, Ryan probably never even let him inside his house, let alone the lab.”

“Noted. If you think of a last name, let us know.” Lal nods slowly, shifting his feet. “What about Ryan’s other relationships?”

Lal laughs, rubbing at his forehead. “ _What_ relationships? He didn’t get along great with Sal, but who does? He ate at his parents’ once a week, though if he could weasel his way out of it, he did. No love lost there. I think they bankrolled Pulse because they felt guilty. Raised by the nanny type, y’know?”

Hank nods. “How are Pulse’s finances?”

“I wouldn’t really know, not my area. Our salaries arrived on time, and broken equipment got replaced, that’s all I got.”

Hank’s stomach churns a little, thinking of that closet full of “equipment.” “Right. Who’s Sal?”

“Sally Rask, our lead computer engineer. She’s…got a strong personality.” Lal’s lips twitch like that’s an extremely polite understatement.

“She get into any fights with Ryan lately?”

“Not that I saw. They didn’t really fight so much as grandstand at each other.” Lal’s brows twitch. “They did get into it pretty loud about a week ago, but she followed him into the storeroom so I couldn’t tell you what about.”

“Guess I’ll find out more when I talk to her. What about the other members of your team?”

Lal sighs, blowing a stray curl that’s flopped onto his forehead. “We’ve had a couple co-ops over the years, and none of ‘em liked him much; don’t think Pulse quite fit their romantic visions of working fancy tech industry jobs. But I doubt any of them cared enough to hold a grudge or anything. Our latest, Uma… She’s an absolute sweetheart, she would never. And other than that, uh… Our receptionist was a temp who only came in when we needed her, and anyway, she didn’t have access to the lab. Not even the cleaning staff did, Ryan let them in himself and watched them like a hawk the whole time. I dunno what he thought they were gonna do, steal gloves? But that’s how he was.”

Hank inhales slowly, shifting his weight. “Tell me more about Ryan. My first impression was dick, and honestly, I’m not feelin’ like I need to reconsider.”

Lal chuckles. “Dick is accurate. Brilliant, control freak, paranoid, driven, more hardworking than anyone I know. Fucking terrible sense of humour, loves dance music, hockey, and his damn bikes. I think that’s basically the only ‘fun’ thing he still made time for, besides…you know…” His cheeks darken again.

Hank nods. “What about his mood?”

Lal looks thrown for a second before his eyes widen and his brows screw up. “You think he…?! No, no, he—”

“We gotta look at things from every angle, even if those angles’re ugly. Answer, please.”

“His mood was…pretty normal?” Lal shakes his head slowly, giving another shrug. “He had ups and downs, but nothing out of the ordinary… I’d say he had freakishly good mental health, and if anyone has a chance of knowing that, it’s me.” Lal smiles sadly. “I actually…I was there for some vulnerable moments. I think that’s…really why he wouldn’t…”

Hank watches him for a moment, then lifts his chin. “Personally, I think you dodged a bullet, but that’s not what you wanna hear, huh?”

Lal bites out a short, bitter laugh. “No, maybe I need to hear it.” He hangs his head. “Not that it matters now…”

Hank shuffles awkwardly, then pats Lal’s shoulder. He doesn’t look like he absolutely hates it. “I got one last question for you, then you can go for now.” He waits for Lal to nod, then continues, “Can you think of anything, any of the chemicals you guys were using, that coulda done this?”

Lal gives him a startled look, then rubs his chin thoughtfully. Hank tries not to smirk; nerdy-types are pretty dependably possible to distract with a puzzle. “Not that I can think of… There’s some that’re moderately caustic or hard on the lungs, but nothing…nothing…” He turns ashen. “I…”

“Don’t think about it too hard.” _Seems like cold comfort, especially when I’m the one prodding him_.

“Ryan knew the stuff we were working with, he would’ve been following safety protocols. We’re fucking _adults_ , damn it!”

Hank raises a placating hand. “I just need to know, and it’s better asking you than waiting for my coworker to lick everything.”

Lal’s eyes widen. “Oh my god, they shoul—”

“Android, don’t worry.”

“Huh…” Lal glances towards the tent and the hidden entrance to Pulse’s office. “Anyway, no, nothing here could’ve done that, no single agent that I can think of, really. If he were exposed in the lab, it would’ve had to be a massive spill of a whole slew of things, and I didn’t see anything like that…”

“Okay.” Hank finishes typing out a last note, and nods to Lal. “Uniform get your details?” Lal nods; now that they’re wrapping up, Hank can see the emotion rolling in over him like grasping waves. “Good. Don’t go far, we’ll probably wanna talk again.”

“You think I could’ve done this?”

Hank stares at his downturned face for a long moment. “I think people are capable of a lot of things, good and bad. And I think you’re capable of understanding now is not a good time for a vacation.”

Lal nods, eyes dropping to somewhere around Hank’s shoulder, clearly seeing nothing tangible.

Hank watches his dejected form leave, then glances over at the uniform still poised against the wall. “Anyone else here?”

“There’s a few waiting in the lobby downstairs. We’ve secured a conference room on the ground level for your use.”

“Great, thanks.” He starts down the hall, but hesitates, not wanting to overtake Lal. Resisting the urge to shoot a glance at the uniform, he pulls out his phone. His thumb hovers over the icon for the dog walking app for a long minute before he lets himself tap it. Before it can fully load, he closes it guiltily.

_Hi, how’s your day going, I just saw a dead body that’s gonna haunt my nightmares for months, are we still on for tonight, any chance you wanna fuck?_

Gritting out a frustrated noise, he sticks his phone back in his pocket and makes for the elevator.

* * *

Someone brings him a tablet loaded with names and proper witness report forms. Not that there’s much point: the cleaners hadn’t been in since the previous Thursday, and the receptionist even longer, and none of them have anything useful to contribute, other than yes, Ryan was a fussy dickwad. The staff from the neighbouring dental clinic have nothing to add either, nor did the building’s security. No suspicious or unauthorized entry, last night or within the past week, though Hank’s not entirely sure how much he trusts barely-over-minimum-wage security to be that thorough or attentive.

Sindri’s never materialised, not even Draw has come to pester him, and Hank’s starting to feel bored, forgotten, and hard-done-by. Also very hungry. When there’s a brief lull in interviews, he sneaks out to a coffee shop he’d spotted off the main lobby.

_Used to be able to skip meals. Dunno what happened, now I need snack time like a preschooler._

Hank collects his coffee from a jittery barista, and wanders over to the windows while he waits for his cranberry-orange muffin to heat up. The press have cleared out of the inset entrance, probably as soon as they realised no one was about to be dragged out in cuffs. Hank sneers behind his cup.

A sleek yellow-breasted bird hops on the edge of the infilled fountain, stalking a line of ants. Hank traces their path along the weathered stone of the fountain’s edge, in and out of the foliage. There’s graffiti here, unsurprisingly, mostly tags but also a bug-eyed dog in neon violet and some kind of abstract angular shape rendered in white. It almost looks like there’s an N, but it’s hard to be certain it’s not just random artistic squiggles. _Wonder if there’s some kind of security cam blind spot here._ Hank takes another sip, following the yellow bird again as it flutters to the fountain’s backdrop. In behind a short, spiny tree, there’s more abstract white shapes. Frowning, Hank shifts over to get a better look. Curiously, some of the lines seem to almost match with the piece on the side of the fountain. He edges further, hampered by the corner of the windows, but he can’t quite make it out.

“Cranberry muffin!” the barista calls out behind him, and Hank shrugs, stepping away.

He’s mid-sip with his hand on the doorknob when it jerks out towards his face. Hank stumbles back a step, his half-hearted curse turning into a full-voiced, “Motherfucker!” as he fully dumps coffee down his front, mercifully missing the tablet under his arm.

“Omigod, I am so, so sorry!”

His first impression of Uma Wilson is eyes. Huge agate-brown doe-eyes behind equally huge round glasses. Her warm sepia cheeks are liberally freckled, and that, combined with her slight buck teeth and her hair scraped back into two low pigtails, contrive to make her look significantly younger than the twenty-four he’d skimmed off a file. Certainly not like someone who’ll be starting residency in a couple years. She’s sporting a well-worn lilac and slate baseball tee with an acronym printed on the breast over the slogan “ _Helping kids be kids again,_ ” and a navy tennis skirt over cropped leggings.

“No harm done,” he says glumly, patting at the (fortunately only warm) spreading stain on his chest. _‘I’m just going across the lobby, I don’t need a lid.’ Dumbass._

Wilson bounces slightly on the balls of her feet and looking from him to the hall behind him. Hank frowns; sometimes, he wishes people would just fucking _say_ what they—

“I, uh, I have to pee. Is it okay if I go?” He must look more put-off than he thought, because Wilson blanches, then adds, “I’m not gonna run away, or anything! I just…I…”

He rubs between his brows, already feeling exhausted. “Yeah, sure, go for it. I should try and clean up, anyway.”

She starts to slip past him, then stops. “I really am sorry about--”

“Just _go_ ,” he growls out. Wilson’s eyes somehow widen even more, then she darts off down the hall.

Hank heads back to the coffee shop, collecting some napkins and avoiding looking at the barista until the guy clears his throat and slides a cup across the counter. With, Hank can’t help noticing resentfully, a lid on it.

“It’s, uh…the fresh pot finished brewing,” the barista explains, carefully keeping his eyes on Hank’s face.

“Much appreciated.” Hank raises the cup in thanks, and starts to step away.

“You’re a cop, right?”

Rolling his eyes internally, Hank settles back. “Yep.”

“I…are we like, in danger or anything?”

Hank sighs. “No. You know anything about those guys?”

The barista shrugs. “Not really. Bennett likes fruit smoothies a lot, Uma always asks for extra foam on lattes. Ryan never came here, too snotty. I only ever saw him walking through the lobby, arguing on his phone I think.” He grimaces. “I’m guessing coffee orders aren’t really that helpful.”

“Every piece of information helps,” Hank only half lies. “Thanks again for the coffee. Call us if you think of anything more.”

Wilson sits in one of the office chairs ranged around the table, kicking her feet lazily, clicking a hair clip open and closed, and looking around as though there were anything more interesting than a couple generic landscapes on the walls. Despite her fidgeting, she doesn’t seem especially nervous. Hank settles in across from her, determined not to hold a grudge, and wakes the tablet.

“So. Uma Wilson.”

“That’s me!” she says, nodding emphatically.

Hank looks up at her earnest face, raising his eyebrows and doing his best not to look dead inside. He takes a bite of muffin and chases it with some coffee; it’s definitely fresher than the previous one. Maybe Wilson did him a favour. “So. Not to sound like a cliché, but can you tell me your whereabouts last night?”

“Aren’t you s’posed to ask me what time?”

“Eh?” Hank sputters on another sip of coffee. “I mean, if you wanna give me the hourly itinerary, go right ahead.”

Wilson blinks at him a couple times. “I was here until…maybe nine thirty? I was preparing bacterial films. I don’t think Ryan and Ben even noticed I left… I walked to the metro station, got a slice of pizza on the way. Went home, studied for an hour or two, then went to bed.”

“Anyone who can confirm that?”

“Either of my roommates? Tim got pissy with me about dishes again, he’ll remember… Not like I’m not the one making them!”

Hank gives her a dead-eyed look, chewing slowly on another mouthful. “Great. Where the hell were you this morning?”

“I had class, didn’t see the call ‘til after!” Wilson’s rounded brows twitch in, almost a frown. “Does this…does this mean you think _I_ did something?”

“We’re still collecting information,” he responds automatically. “ _Did_ you do something?”

“No!” she squeaks, cheeks darkening.

 _Interesting?_ “Alright. Did you notice anything out of the ordinary last night?”

“Mm-mm.” She shakes her head, curls bouncing. “Things’ve been pretty normal, lately!”

“And what’s ‘normal’ with Ryan?”

“Um…” He can tell from the way her shoulders jiggle she’s kicking her feet again. Hank can’t help thinking about watching a coin flash between, over fingers, fast and crisp enough it was like magic. “I usually show up around lunch. I stopped trying to check in with him pretty quick, he doesn’t really care when I show. I’m pretty sure Ben does my hours?” She poofs out one cheek, then exhales quickly. “I check on the mice, feed ‘em, make sure they’re healthy. If we’re running trials with any of them, I do blood draws and full exams.”  She grimaces, the closest thing to an unhappy face Hank’s seen so far. “Not exactly how I imagined using my training, but I believe in the end goal. We’re really gonna help people!”

“Yeah? What’s the price tag? Ryan doesn’t seem like the type to do things out of the charity of his heart.”

"No, he's not."

 _Oh?_ "That bug you?"

Another break in the smiley mask, Wilson biting the inside of her cheek and frowning at the table. “Ryan and I had some…differences of opinion, yeah, but… I really think even bad people can do the right thing for the wrong reasons.”

Around another bite of muffin, Hank asks, “You think Ryan’s a bad person?”

Wilson flinches, staring down Hank’s stained shirt for a solid minute before she finally lifts her eyes again. “Yes.”

He leans his chin on one fist. “What do you think about bad people?”

Wilson seems to give it serious consideration, gripping the edge of the seat and hunching forward until she looks even more like a kid. “I think…bad people can still be useful.”

“And if a person isn’t useful? Or if their bad outweighs the good they do?”

Wilson stares at his chest again, then shakes her head. “People like that should be cut out. If a part of the body is no longer functioning, if it’s harming the tissues around it, and we can’t make it work properly, we neutralise it.” She bites the inside of her cheek again, then glances up hastily. “I mean, like, prison and stuff!”

He nods slowly. “But that’s only for people who break the law.” _Well, that’s the party line, at least._ “What about ones who do things that are within the law, but morally wrong?” The question seems to hang in the air in front of him, reflected off Wilson’s glasses and the polished laminate of the table.

Wilson’s brow wrinkles. “I don’t know!” She chews on her lower lip, then blurts out, “I didn’t do this!”

“I’m not accusing you of anything, I’m just—”

“Yes, you _are!_ You’re just…!” Her eyes take on a glassy look. “You keep asking me these questions like you’re trying to trick me into saying something terrible!”

Hank exhales slowly. “Look, my job is to try and figure out the truth. Somebody offed this fucker, and honestly, I think they did the world a service, ‘brilliant mind’ or not. We don’t need pieces of shit like that. But I still gotta figure out who’s responsible. So.” He crosses his arms, leaning on the table. “Was Ryan doing anything, something maybe morally wrong but not illegal, that would make someone think—and I mean someone, not necessarily you—that he needed to be ‘neutralised?’”

Lips pressed together and trembling slightly, Wilson meets his eyes for a long moment. “I wouldn’t have access to that kind of information,” she says crisply.

Hank stares back at her, willing her to elaborate, to feel safe enough to spill. Eventually, it becomes clear no such thing is gonna happen. He slouches back in his chair, taking a loud slurp of coffee. “You’re free to go. We’ll be in touch.”

Wilson clenches her jaw, then nods once before rising and leaving.

Hank hunches over the tablet, tapping a stylus against the edge as he munches on the last bite of muffin. _What the fuck am I supposed to do with that?_

The door creaks open; Hank tries to turn a flinch into a relaxed inhale, lounging back in his chair and turning to face whoever’s come in.

“Hey, Hank, I uh…oh wow…” Sindri gives him a wide-eyed look, and Hank resist the urge to try and hide the spill. “You piss one of them off?”

“Yeah, but that was _after_ she updated my look, actually.”

Sindri chuckles. “Real cop-chic. Just need some donut sprinkles stuck to it.”

“Har har.” Hank rolls his eyes, then glances down the list of people of interest. “Any chance that Rask person is AWOL so I can go change?”

Sindri’s smile flattens. “Actually, yeah, we haven’t been able to raise her at home, and none of her other clients know her whereabouts.” He shrugs. “Doesn’t look great for her, but all we can do is put out an APB on her vehicle and hope she shows up. For the time being, I was gonna send you and Draw to check out the Pollock residence. Ray says she’ll be ready with the preliminary autopsy report soon, so I’m gonna go check in with her.” He's already turning to leave.

“Fantastic,” Hank deadpans.

If Sindri picks up on his lack of enthusiasm, he doesn’t show it. He glances back over his shoulder, brow crinkling slightly. “Hank? Watch out for him.”

Adrenaline jolting, Hank straightens. “Wh—”

“Draw can be a little careless with himself.”

_Of course. God forbid any harm come to the department’s precious baby._

His eyes fall shut, and behind them, he can see a slim figure skidding down the panes of a greenhouse roof towards a moving train. Throwing himself between Hank’s all-too-vulnerable flesh and a bullet that surely had his name written on it. A bullet that, at the time, he would’ve welcomed. Almost cursed Connor for being the one bleeding out on the floor, greedily stealing that release only to squander it with a fresh body.

_Are you still so callous with your own life? Or did deviancy teach you the true meaning of fear and permanence?_

_And other totally normal things to ask your prospective dog walker._

“…and Sofia’s right, this is…he could get real messed up.”

Hank nods grimly. “I’ll make sure he doesn’t get into trouble.”

Sindri gives him a perplexed look for a moment, then shoots him a toothy smile. “Great. We’ll meet back up at the precinct?”

“Yeah. Yeah, sure.”

* * *

Draw mercifully doesn’t comment on the state of Hank’s shirt, and only nods curtly when Hank says they’ll be swinging by the house. Hank tolerates the oppressive silence until the first stoplight, then snatches a look at the Shimizu’s control panel so he can put on some jams. The throaty crooning of Lisha Baines slowly edges out the awkwardness.

“You can stay in the car,” he says once they arrive, not waiting for Draw to answer before he slams the door closed and jogs up the front walk.

He opens the patio door on his way; Sumo just gives him an affronted look before laying his huge head back down on his paws. Hank droops, then backtracks to nudge him with his foot. "C'mon, old boy," he says, bending to give him some coaxing scritches. With an immense put-upon groan, Sumo heaves to his feet and trundles outside.

It’s still a little weird taking clothes out of his drawers again rather than digging them out of a pile of clean(?) things. _We’ll see how long that lasts._

Hank stills, shirtless and holding a faded grey-green band tee in one hand. _No. You’re gonna fucking keep it up._

Movement catches his eye out the window, Sumo circling happily on the other side of the patio, then putting his paws up on the side gate, greeting…

Hank does a double-take, wondering if he’s somehow completely mixed up his times. Up until he registers that ugly-ass white jacket and the expressionless face.

He fights the urge to clutch his shirt against his front. Draw probably can’t see him in the unlit room, in the unlikely event that he’d even care about getting flashed some old man boobs. Anyway, he seems focused on Sumo, who’s lapping up the attention with his typical dignity.

_Et tu, Sumo?_

With a bitter smile, he pulls the shirt over his head, and settles his side holster in place before pulling the same loose button-up over top. Back down the hall to the kitchen, he checks Sumo’s food and water, then calls him, regaining some amount of satisfaction when the St. Bernard comes immediately at his call. Draw may not be able to appreciate his self-satisfied smirk, but Hank can feel content knowing he’s won.

When he opens the front door, Draw’s back sitting in the front seat, staring blandly ahead as if he’d never left.

“Hope you weren’t bored,” he can’t resist prodding.

“I don’t get bored.”

Hank pauses in the middle of doing up his seatbelt. “I’m not gonna touch that one. Special gift from me to you.”

Draw narrows his eyes but doesn’t respond.

They head north to where Pollock’s house is set into the foothills, luxe enough to have decent square footage but not to command the kind of view the neighbourhood calls to mind. The building sweeps out from the hillside at a dramatic angle that Hank’s sure is supposed to be impressive and Modern but its gleaming white just makes him think of ski jumps. Downward-angled windows up the front, as if the weight of the roof were bowing them out. And… It could’ve been a trick of the light, but he’s pretty sure the glass is tinted.

Raising an eyebrow, he follows Draw up the steps of the gently curved front walk.

Next to the front door, there’s an involved-looking lock setup with a palm-sized sensor panel and a keypad. Above it, there’s a pretty obvious camera lens, though Hank has the feeling there’s at least one other, better hidden. He squints at it for a second, then makes an exaggerated “after you” gesture to Draw.

“Wanna ‘like talk to the lock’ again?”

To his surprise, the corner of Draw’s mouth quirks up slightly, though he doesn’t dignify it with a response.

Hank stares at the back of his head, then at his naked hand as he lightly cups the box. Garbled text shows on the screen, a small light blinking red.

“Wait, it’s not gonna self-destruct if you— H-hey!”

Without so much as a by-your-leave, Draw grabs his wrist, yanking him towards the lock and slapping his palm to the panel.

“I think I can convince it your palm is in its database, but it wouldn’t accept zero input.”

Hank snatches his hand back, wiping it unnecessarily against his shirt, and grumbles, “You coulda just fuckin’ asked, you menace.”

The door clicks solidly. Draw turns a bland glare on him. “I didn’t feel like it.” He reaches back to open the door, and, as if Hank hadn’t so rudely interjected, he continues, “I expect requiring a handprint may be an anti-android defense.”

“How fascinati—”

 _Cr-CRASH_.

There’s a split second where their eyes meet and Draw’s LED cycles yellow before he flings himself through the door, Hank hot on his heels.

_This dude better not have boobytraps._

Hank draws his service weapon. “Draw, careful!” If the android hears him, he offers no acknowledgement. Still, Hank’s grateful he’s here: with his stronger ability to pinpoint sounds, he darts across the open livingroom towards a door with confidence Hank doesn’t feel. Draw slaps a bare hand on another lock panel, this one giving way immediately so they barely break stride.

Hank follows him down a long, featureless hallway, one that seems to extend the length of the house, or maybe even beyond. _Of_ course _this dickwad has a secret lair under the mountains._

Another lock; this one takes a moment to give way.

“Draw, get behind me,” Hank barks. He decides to take a page from Draw’s book and just elbows him out of the way. With a shallow breath, he kicks in the door.

A gutted lab space, less big machinery than Pulse, more computers. A tall set of rolling metal drawers spilled on the floor, leaking a pale orange liquid from one corner. A body on the floor.

And in front of them, Sally Rask, brandishing an exacto knife in a pale and shaky fist.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me, 20k into this piece, Connor still nowhere in fucking sight,


End file.
